


Naga

by Serpensortias



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Dark Magic, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Manipulation, Obsession, Post-Hogwarts, Time Travel, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpensortias/pseuds/Serpensortias
Summary: 'Hermione Granger, I have seen your soul.’ The locket crooned enticingly. 'I have seen your most desperate desires and now...I offer them all.’ The serpent encircled her, his cold skin weaving in and out of her limbs. ‘Now all you have to do, is share.’On the night that Harry and Ron should have destroyed the locket, Hermione consents to sharing her soul with Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 78
Kudos: 225





	1. Prologue: Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The original characters and plot are the property of J.K. Rowling. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

> "By **your** many sins and dishonest trade **you** have desecrated **your** sanctuaries. **So I made** a **fire come** out from **you, and it consumed you** , and I **reduced you to ashes on the ground in the sight of all** who were watching." -Ezekiel 28: 18-20.

The chain of the Horcrux had closed tight around Harry's esophagus. Harry Potter thrashed, the dark water weighing on his torso like an anchor. Distantly, he could hear the sound of splashing water, someone was kicking wildly towards him from the rocky side of the pool. But they would be a little too late, He was going to suffocate, or drown, or—

—Harry _and_ _Ron_ were hoisted, magically to the water's edge.

Someone had cast a warming charm on them. He felt his savior lifting the golden chain over his head, at once, Harry felt like a great burden had been lifted off of his back. Opening his eyes, blinking and rolling to his side, he retched onto the snow, struggling to draw breath into his frozen lungs. Shakily, Harry sat up, his windpipe felt like someone had scraped the insides of his throat with an angry toothbrush.

But _nothing_ could have prepared him for confronting the sight of Ron, groaning beside him, drenched, his hair plastered to his cheeks. Ron's hands were clasped around the hilt of sword of Gryffindor, like some sort of prayer. He used it to stagger to his feet, lips parted, eyes wide and fixed _solely_ on their third companion in the clearing; who just so happened to be their savior.

‘Are both of you _insane?!_ ’ shrieked a familiar voice. ‘You could have _drowned,_ or WORSE!’ Yelled the third member of the trio.

There before them stood Hermione, she had come to save him again, as she had on the night at Godric's Hollow. Dressed in a set of witches robes, Hermione had her beaded bag slung over her elbow, one hand gripped the hilt of her recently retrieved wand and Slytherin's locket swung from her other hand.

Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at each other as though they were seeing each other for the first time. 

‘How did you find me?’ Panted Harry. He wasn’t entirely sure who the question was aimed at, perhaps both of them. Embarrassed, Harry realized he was only in his boxers and began hastily pulling on his trousers. But Hermione’s eyes did not so much as waver from Ron.

'Hermione?’ Said Ron. ‘I—’ He gulped. ‘I’m sorry I left.’

 _‘— **Don’t** —'_ Hermione hissed furiously, she huffed, cheeks reddening and foot stamping in the snow. Absentmindedly, she pulled the heavy golden chain of the locket around her neck. It burrowed into her robe like a snake that had found a new nest. Hermione pointed her wand at Ron’s jugular ‘—You _dare_ to crawl back to us after _WEEKS_ ’

Harry glanced around for the sword.

As though anticipating the imminent danger, the locket began to pulse and twist on her like a viper awakening from winter hibernation.

Hermione and Ron did not seem to notice. Instead, she circled Ron like a shark scenting blood in the water.

‘Now is not the time!’ interrupted Harry, exasperated. ‘We need to destroy the locket once and for all—’

‘Hermione, I know, I can’t take it all back. I really am sorry—’ Ron blubbered, lost.

‘ _SORRY,_ are you?’ Hermione sneered disdainfully at Ron. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself, _Ronald Weasley_?’ spoke Hermione. Gesturing wildly, voice high, haughty and intending to wound. ‘Come! Regale us with your superior _wit,_ I’m sure we’ll expire before you do.’ Hermione’s voice dripped venom, utterly remorseless and condescending.

‘Hermione, will you please calm—’ interjected Harry, grimacing.

‘I tried to come back! The moment I got home I wanted to come back’ burst Ron. ‘I splinched myself and nearly got caught trying to get back to the two of you—’

‘Did Mrs. Weasley not want _you_ at home _?_ Was she displeased that her least favorite – _least accomplished_ – son returned, empty handed? Is that why you’re here with a sword like a _kicked_ _dog_?’ Her eyes darkened, glinting scarlet. Ron flinched backwards as though slapped. ‘Did you finally comprehend that you’re _nothing_ by yourself? You’re _nothing_ unless you’re next to Harry, next to _us_?’ Hermione cackled. Her smile was a taut leer, savage, and more terrifying than her look of rage. Her face had contorted malevolently, Hermione was almost unrecognizable.

All the while, the locket glowed jubilantly, charged and eager. Harry felt his stomach turn in dread.

‘Hermione, that-that’s enough. You’re not yourself right now’ said Harry.

But Hermione ignored him and continued to prowl scathingly around Ron.

Ron let the sword fall pitifully into the snow. Without Hermione noticing, Harry attempted to reach for it with his foot and kick it towards himself.

‘Do you know what I realized after you _abandoned_ us _?'_ Hermione continued, her hair swirling around her like a livid gorgon. Ron looked petrified.

‘We don’t _need_ you. What could you POSSIBLY offer us – _offer **me**?_

‘Hermione.’ Whispered Harry urgently. ‘Take off the locket.’ Blood thundering in his brain, he inched himself towards Ron and the sword, priming himself to rip the locket from Hermione’s throat.

As though she finally heard him, Hermione stopped abruptly, for a second she remained swaying and reeling like a kite, to and fro in the snow, then, with a tiny ‘oh’ as though in awe; she was levitated gracefully into the air. At once, like lighting to a blade of grass, Hermione’s chest positively erupted—

Ron opened his mouth in a silent scream. Howling, Harry lunged for the sword.

Blood gushed, hot and fast and unstoppable from the open cavity in Hermione’s breast.

In the hole of her chest, there, like a demented living heart, beat the locket; red and wet and _alive._ Hermione’s head swiveled wildly. Her wand plunged into the snow like a fallen sword. Raising her hands, as though making to rip the locket out of her own chest. Then, Hermione gave a low moaning cry and the locket unlocked with a hiss, opening the windows of its mouth, that now, resembled a black and bloodied, but gloating smile.

Hermione convulsed.

No, NO! —' Bellowed Ron, jumping and trying to seize her by the ankles, to tug her back to the ground. His hand dug into his pocket, retrieving his wand and pointing it at the locket: frantically casting spell after spell.

Harry whirled wildly in the snow, the sword in his hand and _slipped_ \--

\-- Hermione crumpled to the snow like an offering, chest igniting in flames. 

Her body combusted bluer than methane. The spine gave a sickening crack and her limbs bent into unnaturally curved angles, spiraling around the locket in a terrible broken display. The gaping windows expanded and sucked Hermione inwards like a vacuum, as though it were the center of a dying star.

‘HERMIONE!’ Ron screamed.

Harry leapt in the air, sword flashing silver and plunging.

There was a loud slashing noise, like a limb of something had been cut cleanly off.

The locket’s magic threw Harry’s torso, he collided painfully with Ron. _It’s not enough_ , Harry registered desperately, struggling to stand. He caught sight of Ron-

'DON'T TOUCH IT!' Screamed Harry.

Deaf to Harry's cries, Ron had thrown himself at the burning witch, his heavy hands wound into the flames. The blue fire ate his blackened fingers until they looked like stumps, the locket’s magic spat him out.

Ron collapsed, aflame, on the ground. Fire littered the forest floor, the locket had lit a gigantic bonfire. 

But its flames guttered unsteadily. The Horcrux let out a painful scream, guzzling up the rest of Hermione. The sword had gouged a huge golden chunk from one window _._ The locket’s flames spasmed, turning from confused shades of blue, then green, then red, then black again.

The locket swallowed Hermione’s feet like a serpent eating its own tail.

In a tremendous blaze the Horcrux exploded—

 _—_ _And the Golden Trio was no more._


	2. A Faustian Bargain

> 'It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul.' - Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea.

It was like being an insect suspended in a jar of alcohol. 

How much time had passed? None? Some? An eternity? She had no hands to fight with, no voice to speak with, and no limbs to flee on, only the imposing sensation of immutability. She felt not a trace of meaning. Did she exist at all? Was she allowed to cease existing?

But as though **_it_** lived to prove her wrong, the distant _**it** _made noises.

From garbled hissing to terrified whimpers, cracked laughter to struggling pleas, jubilant then seething, morose then manic; the voice was almost certainly unstable but **_always hungry_** _._ Hermione felt that it was like living next to a capricious orchestra without a conductor.

Nevertheless, _his_ presence came both as a relief and a disappointment.

 _That voice is not mine. He exists but he is not me,_ observed Hermione. _I cannot be an ‘I’ in isolation, for ‘I’ is only used to differentiate oneself,_ Hermione conjectured excitedly. _**I am** because **we** are, therefore **,** I **must** exist! _

As soon as Hermione surmised this, she felt a cold surface beneath her. She twisted, becoming _very_ conscious of the fact that she was curled up in a fetal position. Hermione untangled her limbs. She had an uncomfortable, niggling anxiety - some alien dread whose origin she could not divine. Yet, her body appeared unharmed. Hermione thought only _‘Where is this? Why am I?...’  
_

Barely had the question formed in her mind, she knew her answer. Hermione blanched.

**_It is dingy inside Lord Voldemort’s soul._ **

Whatever foul scene the Horcrux conjured up to confine a soul fragment; it was dark and sterile, smelt arid, felt too small, and was failing. There was an odd fume that proliferated both the senses that smelt distinctly like decay. The floor she lay on was like thin ice, cracked, hemorrhaging a myriad of dark colors onto the back of her thighs and palms. It was like being trapped inside an enormous infected wound. _Which is **certainly not** mine to suture! _Thought Hermione sternly. She rolled forwards and shakily stood up in the dark, held out her palms in front of herself: determined to feel her away around her surroundings—

 **‘ _Stop.’_** Tom Riddle spoke directly to her for the first time.

His voice was high and cold, with an unnatural ringing force to it. Two red eyes opened and glowered contemptuously at Hermione.

‘You will move only if I will it, _Mudblood-wearer_.' Said the locket. It was a command. A presumption.

Hermione clenched her jaw. But it was not just dread she felt, _no_ , it was far worse, far more reckless. Riddle automatically infuriated her, not merely because of the predicament she found herself in. No, it was simply because of his instantaneous impression that he felt he was her better in every capacity. _Arrogant, presumptuous, prejudiced toerag,_ She thought scathingly. Outwardly, Hermione's expression hardened, considering him boldly for a moment before speaking.

‘Why am I not dead?’ she asked, and Riddle’s eyes grew ravenous for an imperceptible second, then hardened and went impassive.

‘Miss. Granger’ Said Riddle slowly. ‘It appears I have a great use for you.’ His eyes were still fixed coolly on her, but his voice was so hushed that Hermione had scarcely heard him.

Hermione blinked, incredulous. _Honestly_ , she thought, giving an irked twitch and frowning. _The sheer audacity._

‘I have destroyed you; I have eliminated those _buffoons_ you refer to as _friends_ and very soon I will eliminate what remains of _you._ In this space, I have absolute control. You cannot hope to fight me and succeed. _Give yourself_ _to me_ , and you shall find that I can be most lenient. Refuse now and you shall _beg_ for my mercy.’

There was a long, drawn out silence. 

Hermione's face shuttered, glazed with tears. Bent double, wheezing— _Harry and Ron_ —she hugged her abdomen like a lifeline. Hermione gasped and gulped _—_ wept _—_ tears streaming fast and hot. She gave a tremendous shudder— _I have **failed** them— **useless witch** —It’s my fault that the locket—_Hermione let out a great sob. Her nails tried to puncture the skin of her flesh— _I deserve to die—_ _Let me bleed—it’s my fault they—if only I died with them._

Riddle's expression remained pensive, almost...disappointed. Studying her snidely, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and banish a pesky roach.

‘So, **_this_** is attachment?’ He sneered, disbelieving. ‘Breeding nothing but insecurity, disbanding _all_ logic, courting weakness, and culminating in loss?’ He scoffed. ‘Nothing but the **ultimate _failure_.**’

Hermione stiffened, hiccuping softly, suddenly examining Riddle as curiously as though he were a living potions project, her lips settling in a thin, grim line.

Riddle’s eyes narrowed at her. He spoke again, ‘I offer you mercy, _yield_ now—’

 _‘_ **No**.’ said Hermione. ‘No _,_ I will not.’ She gave him a hollow smile.

Riddle did not answer at once, but Hermione could see shock flit across Riddle’s eyes, immediately quashed by a stab of rage. Hermione continued, 'whatever dark magic you used to cast asunder my body, I know this: my soul will remain unscathed. I will not surrender myself to you.’ Hermione, tentative, pulled back her sleeve and held out a single, unpunctured arm. Her nails that had tried so desperately to dig into the flesh of her triceps, but hadn’t so much as indented crescent shaped marks in the skin.

‘What desperate illusion is this?’ Riddle laughed. ‘Do you _dare_ to test _me_ Mudblood?’ Riddle replied. It came not as a question, but a low warning.

'Well yes’ Said Hermione. ‘As you undoubtedly know, _my lord_ , there are few substances that can vanquish a Horcrux, like the very goblin-made sword that maimed you. In fact, moments ago, you _should_ have ceased to exist.’ Hermione paused. ‘You sensed this. So, you murdered Harry and—’ Hermione gulped ‘—you devoured my physical body, using it to narrowly to sustain an already pitiable existence.’

‘You are forgetting yourself, Miss. Granger.’ Riddle’s his voice burned in the magical space, a controlled fury building. ‘Capable witch that you are, you presume, **_mistakenly_ ,** that I cannot simply take what will be mine?’

‘You see, I don’t believe I am mistaken. You have **_already_** taken what was **_within_** your powers to take. You said so yourself, _you_ destroyed my physical body. But you failed to mention that you _need_ what remains of me.’ Hermione hurled the words back at Riddle; tone shrill and vicious. Her arms crossed and her foot tapped, impatient and uppish. ‘You require my soul, willingly given.’

Riddle’s red eyes flashed from her impudence but still he did nothing, enraptured though he was.

‘You possess less than a quarter of the original portion of Tom Riddle’s soul. But, from my understanding, your existence is much like an unstable nuclear element; deriving destructive energy by possessing and feeding on human emotion.’ Hermione continued. ‘But to escape-- _to truly be **alive**_ \--you need a magical host. You had already been weakened. And now, ironically, you need what you once forfeited: a stable soul. You sought to intimidate me, to frighten me into submitting myself to you. But it is _you_ that is **mistaken** , _Lord_ Voldemort.’ 

Hermione’s magic flared, emboldened, illuminating the Horcrux with a magnificent beacon of amber light. The inside of the locket was cracked and splintered like a degrading snow globe. The Horcrux recoiled from her magic, unnerved.

‘I am not frightened.’ Said Hermione.

She could see him now.

Curled on the ground. Riddle took the form of a small albino asp. Clearly starving, its scales were raw and peeling, vertebrae jutting out grotesquely, he looked ashen and sickly-looking. There, at his extremity, was very bloodied tail that looked to have been cut cleanly off, bleeding profusely and refusing to clot. His eyes were greedy red holes that flickered with insatiable intellect and something furtive, something shameful, but Hermione recognized it at once... _Lord Voldemort feels...insecure,_ Hermione observed.

She drew nearer to the asp cautiously, close enough to reach out and touch him; crouching as an adult may crouch before a lost child. Infuriatingly, her magic—distressed—encircled him, almost... _compassionate._ The asp flinched and cowered from her, looking bewildered but wary. Her palm drew closer slowly, hovering scarcely a centimeter above his head. Riddle’s magic flashed; Hermione observed the suppressed yearning there. 

‘I don’t want your _**pity**_ , Mudblood.’ Riddle spat, in his soft snake hiss. ‘I don’t need your ** _understanding_.**’ His voice was high enough to hide the humiliation in his voice. But not high enough so much as to fool her.

_It was **him** that was afraid._

Hermione laughed.

‘Don’t misunderstand, I don’t pity you. I don’t even want to know how to begin to understand you. Perhaps, even just a little, I recognize a bit of **me** _in you_.’ Hermione recalled what Professor Lupin had once called her, all those years ago, in the Shrieking Shack. She turned to Riddle. ‘Such a **_waste_** of the _brightest wizard of his age_ I’ve ever met’. Recited Hermione, a joyless parody of the most flattering compliment she had ever received. _But I'm not_ Hermione thought, _I'm not the cleverest witch. If I had a little more sense--_

So Hermione touched him. Tracing the line of a wounded set of scales on his skull with her index finger. Sweetly drawing the back of her nails up and down the tender skin of his serpentine neck, then, gently cradling his face with her hands.

But Riddle’s reaction was instantaneous—

—he melted into the palm of her hand, self-folding like a flower towards the sunlight; gasping in pleasure and relief. His forked tongue flickered out to taste her, emitting a contented hiss. The blood at the end of his tail, clotted at a blistering pace, Hermione contemplated it with rapt calculation.

She ripped her hand away. With a great blow, her magic had thrown him forcefully back. The asp thudded against a cracked wall with an enraged hiss. He regained his composure instantly. This time, Riddle poised to strike, barring sharp fangs and spitting. She withdrew and stood. Hermione licked her lips. ‘You're right you know. You don’t need my pity, nor do you need my understanding.' She said as if to herself. ‘No, much more so, it’s **_my help_** that you require.’

Hermione thought _, What the lioness cannot manage, a fox will,_ undaunted.

Tilting her head to the side, appraising, her voice came clear and high. ‘So, Tom, **what** can you _offer **me**_ to get what you want?’

Riddle’s eyes widened; his black, slit-like pupils dilated till they appeared almost round, eclipsing his red irises. Withdrawing, he chuckled, ecstatic, it was the most normal sound he had emitted thus far, but his smile remained in a taut and sharp _leer._

‘Delightful witch’. He hissed, amused. ‘What you seek would mean mutual cooperation.’ He gloated, smirking conspicuously, ‘how fortuitous’.

Hermione bristled. ‘I have spent the past seven years trying to aid in your defeat, you and your other incarnation have taken **_everything_** from me! If you think for a single moment that anything short of **_extraordinary_** can compel me to cooperate with you, you are woefully ignorant of the truth. I am perfectly content to wait and watch you to rot here - or better yet - it would bring me no greater joy than to see you perish with me'. Hermione spat waspishly.

Riddle’s expression sobered: He was gazing at Hermione as though he had never seen her plainly before. She could tell he was considering his words very carefully before he spoke.

'Those boys. I can offer the opportunity to _undeniably_ spare them from their fates...' Said Riddle.

Stricken, Hermione's spine went rigid. She did not need a clarification on precisely who he was talking about. ‘...All this I can give and _more_.’

Riddle drew closer still, two hypnotic red eyes filled her vision, but she did not protest. His voice was carefully controlled, but Riddle’s desire was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer smother his longing. His tongue darted out tickling her skin. Hermione’s mind flung back to a time when another large pair of luminous yellow eyes, the color of light bulbs, had flashed in a hand-mirror at her. Then, as she did now, she gazed back: captivated.

'Hermione Granger, I have seen your soul.’ The locket crooned enticingly. 'I have seen your most desperate desires and now... _ **I offer them all.**_ ’ The serpent encircled her, his cold skin weaving in and out of her limbs. ‘Now all you have to do, is **_share_**.’

Lip gently parted, eyes alight with an intemperate fascination, Hermione nodded. 

Riddle lunged for her lips.

Hermione did not know where Riddle ended and where she began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very difficult chapter to write, but I enjoyed writing it. While in the Deathly Hallows in the King's Cross chapter, Harry realizes he exists because he recognizes and validates his own sensations. I wanted to make Hermione's realization predicated on her relation to other people, so that portion is directly inspired from Ubuntu Philosophy! Hope you all enjoyed reading~


	3. Lamia

> "The night in which distinctions and definitions cannot be readily made is the same night in which love is made, in which things merge, change, become enchanted, aroused, impregnated, possessed, released, renewed.” - Rebecca Solnit

Hermione surged upright.

She felt as though she had been flayed, ingloriously thrust down a very long, very tight pipe and deposited like waste at the exit. Hermione tried to blink, _to see_ , but with mounting horror she realized she was half blind, her vision impaired by some milky, desiccated emulsion that covered her very exposed, _very naked_ figure.

Scandalized, yelping, she sank, bunching her knees to her chest to hide her nakedness. Hermione raised her hand to her face and felt wildly. Her entire body was encased in some dense snakeskin, like the pulp inside the rind of an orange. By instinct, she dug her nails in and unpeeled a scaly layer from her brow to her naval. Ripping the remaining strips from her limbs and cast them aside in utter revulsion. Her skin prickled, oversensitive and raw, it was as though she was a freshly hatched bird. Pivoting on rough rock, Hermione beheld her surroundings and then retched so loudly her throat felt like it might tear.

It was a cave.

Hermione was kneeling on a small island of a rock in the center of a cavernous lake. In a distant rock-face, out of a narrow opening fissure beamed a slim slither of moonlight, weakly illuminating the small strip of the island in a deathly white glow. There was the sharp scent of copper, salt and sea. The water was eerily still, like a black slab of marble, the only sound was the distant roar of the ocean.

Hermione got up and walked around the small rock, breathing quickly, trying **_not_** to think.

 _I want to weep,_ she thought. Hermione wanted to run to Harry and Ron, to wrap them in her arms so tightly that they would never ever come to any harm. Hermione wanted to laugh with them, traipsing down towards Hagrid's hut.

But Hermione Granger had to think... ** _always_** had to think...there was no respite. The memories welled up like blood in a cut. It was _her_ fault Harry and Ron had died the way they did. If she hadn't worn the Horcrux...if she had been more _logical,_ if she had she better control over her emotions, if she hadn't unleashed her anger on Ron—Hermione released a dry sob—if only she had _listened_ to Harry, if she had not succumbed to the locket, not once, but _twice_...

'It's all my fault, it's all my fault' Hermione muttered as though it were a hymn, springing up and wringing her hands. 

Hermione's mind rushed back to the locket's promise.

_'I can offer the opportunity to undeniably spare them from their fates...'_

She paced back and forth furiously, _you promised_ , she thought, despairing. _Liar._

'WHERE ARE THEY?' Hermione screamed. Her voice echoing back at her in the cave.

Pacing, Hermione's foot kicked something soft, it landed with a splash at the bank of the rock. Unsettled, she approached the edge of the water, picking it up with the same gentleness that she might have used to pick up an injured bird. Hermione stared disbelievingly into her palms.

Wet and charred almost to a black but otherwise intact, was her beaded handbag. Hermione drew in a ragged breath: In the Forest of Dean, in a wild panic she had noticed that Harry had suddenly disappeared from his watch in front of their tent, Hermione had packed their belongings and snatched it in a rush to go after him.

‘At least I have you’ she whispered to it sadly. Hermione dropped her eyes but in glancing away from the beaded bag, she caught sight of herself in a reflection for the first time, refracted back in the water.

Hermione saw herself, only, it was not quite _her.  
_

Riddle-Hermione was so beautiful it was unnatural. The reflected image of the woman was more bewitching in every conceivable way. Riddle-Hermione's features no longer exhibited any of those imperfections that reconciled her to mortality, rather, her beauty was a symptom of _his_ magic. Hermione's eyes roved down to a gleaming scar over her right breast, branded there like a second heart. It was a circular serpent, curled inwards, swallowing its own tail. The locket had stayed with her after all, like a dead weight inside of her. But perhaps the most disturbing feature of them all, were her eyes. No, they were not the familiar, warm brown pigment of Hermione's irises. But a flashing scarlet, bright as arterial blood.

_‘Now all you have to do, is **share**.’_

Hermione blinked, appalled, her burnished reflection still imprinted on her retinas and _shrieked._

 _'Of course',_ Hermione hissed out loud, her mind throttling alive in bitter realizations. 'How could a man so consumed with the idea of eternally sustaining _himself_ , have _any normal_ conception of cooperation?!' She mentally berated herself. All her life, Hermione had prided herself in her intellect, yet she had been outwitted by the temporary but nonetheless _idiotic_ presumption that Lord Voldemort would have any normal solutions to a magical dilemma — to their bargain. _No_ , the lunatic thought himself too sly, too extraordinary, too _special_ to use more feasible, healthy methods.

Hermione had been narrow minded. She swooped to the floor to examine a piece of snakeskin that had sloughed off of her, inspecting it with clinical aggression. She flicked it aside like it was a gnat.

Hermione snorted, almost impressed by his cunning. In one fell swoop he had ensured his maimed soul a new, whole vessel—albeit much more conscious that he would have originally intended—but he had simultaneously eliminated the possibility of her destroying him. Destroying him now, would mean literal suicide. _Fool me twice_ , Hermione thought to herself, the realization was simply galling. Morbidly, briefly, Hermione contemplated it: ending it all here on this rock—she had packed a few kitchen knives in her beaded bag. But could a human-Horcrux die from a normal knife? She shook her head. Is that what she is now? Another bearer for his fractured soul? Did that mean Harry could have been one as well? Was that why he was able to see into Lord Voldemort's mind? Was she now capable of the same feats of Parseltongue? It was too much.

Hermione flung a rock at the lake, seething at the ceiling of the cave; onyx stones blinked innocently back at her.

_'Voldemort kept his locket in a stone basin in a cave.' said Harry._

Eyes darting around the large black lake. Hermione could make out distant banks that glinted like black glass from what was presumably wet tar. There was a slim orifice that led out to the sea. The light was growing brighter still, _it's_ _dawn_ , Hermione registered.

_"The Dark Lord took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great, black lake" Sobbed Kreacher.  
_

Hermione turned, eyes roving. No potion, no basin, no boat, and certainly no Inferi. The eerie stillness seemed to indicate this place had known some magic, but it did not show the same dark taint of the magic that Harry and Kreacher had once described. _No_ , Harry and Dumbledore had left the cave relatively intact, they had left it in the hopes that Voldemort, in his arrogance would presume that his soul fragment was safe. _It's different,_ Hermione noted. But she knew with utmost certainty that the locket had deposited her in the very cave its original incarnation had terrorized children in, had left his Horcrux in, and now left her in.

 _This is beyond maddening_ , Hermione thought, throwing herself to the floor then rose again almost immediately. _I cannot stay here_ , Hermione thought, _I need answers_. Hermione's mind whirled. She had no wand to apparate with. Even with her altered appearance, taking the Knight Bus could spell trouble for her. She was still an undesirable and a muggle-born.

She shrugged at the lake, _I suppose I'll have to do this the muggle way,_ Hermione thought snidely.

She undid the knot at her beaded bag, pulled on a change of clothes, and tied her bag to her back. 

Hermione waded into the icy seawater and began to swim.

* * *

The snow was drifting down and down.

 _How odd_. Hermione thought. _In the forest the snow had already stuck._ Drifting snowflakes brushed her cloak. She shivered, Hermione had taken a black cloak from her beaded bag, but she was no less wet or cold from her swim and climb up the cliffs up from the cave. 

Hermione trudged up a winding cul-de-sac strewn with party poppers, empty drink bottles and dud firecrackers. Head tilting upwards, she judged the height of the sun, Hermione estimated it was at least ten in the morning, but there was not a muggle in sight. She passed a series of dated seaside cottages, their letterboxes stuffed with newspapers. There was a very old-fashioned blue Fiat parked on the side of the road, one which, she was certain Mr. Weasley would adore. She pulled the hood of her cloak further down.

Two muggle children had drawn on the road with chalk and were playing hopscotch. Hermione smiled softly at such a sight. She continued, eyes roving around the closed shops examining oddly vintage looking posters advertising for sweets. She hunted for some kind of indication as to where she was, or better yet a map. One of the muggle children turned to her, beaming.

'Happy New Year Miss!' One of them said. She saw the boy's smile falter as he walked near enough to see underneath the hood of her cloak. Hermione saw the fear bloom on his little face when his eyes landed on her scarlet eyes. Before she could say a word, the little boy backed away, his hand coming to find his sister's and pulling her back into a white house. Hermione pressed her lips together.

 _New Year?_ She thought, perplexed _. The last Potterwatch was on the 27th of December. Have I been out cold for so long?_

Hermione paused at the window of a closed shop.

**_E. & N. LONG Charmouth Post Office_ **

_I'm in Dorset,_ Hermione observed. Her eyes flickered down to a poster hammered to the front door. She stopped dead. 

**CLOSED FROM THE** **31 st OF ** **DECEMBER 1947 TO THE 3 rd OF JANUARY 1948!**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR'S EVE TO ALL!**

**SEE YOU ALL NEXT YEAR.**

Unconsciously, her face had come so close to the door that the tip of Hermione’s nose had bumped against the wood. Unmoved, she poked the poster with a single digit, testing for signs of it being bewitched, muttering to herself.

_'I can offer the opportunity to **undeniably** spare them from their fates...'_

She jumped back as though she had received an electric shock, tripping backwards on the pavement. _Madness_ , she thought. _Absolutely barking.  
_

_"Awful things have happened when wizards have meddled with time…"_

Hermione began to laugh hysterically.

 _Awful things have already happened,_ said a derisive voice. _But you are no wizard._

A dog in a muggle's garden barked in response. Underneath her cloak, Hermione's fingers fingered for her coin purse in her beaded bag, stepping backwards, she cast a quick glance around for muggles. Grinning, Hermione raised her wand hand in the air as if in surrender.

There was a deafening bang.

An obnoxiously purple triple-decker bus screeched to a halt in front of her.

 _I love magic,_ Hermione thought with malignant glee. Then a corpulent conductor in a much-too-small purple uniform, sporting an equally purple walrus mustache, jumped off of the bus with far too much gusto.

'HAPPY NEW YEAR MA'AM!' Boomed the purple conductor. 'Welcome to the Knight Bus! At your service! I am your conductor Frode MacClivert. This beautiful beast is emergency transport for the stranded witch or—’

‘—Diagon Alley, Ollivander's wand shop, please’ interrupted Hermione. ‘Oh yes and Happy New Year’ she said, remembering herself.

'Need a new wand, do you?' The conductor nodded cheerily, unperturbed. His purple walrus-mustache wiggled comically. 'Right, name please? That'll be seven sickles, ma'am! Eight sickles will get you a chocolate frog and eleven sickles will get you some choice snacks, toiletry kit with this morning's _The Daily_ _Prophet_ or a paper of your choosing'

'Mafalda Collins' she said, stepping onto the bus. Hermione reached into her handbag, extracted her change and placed eleven sickles in his waiting palm. MacClivert nodded excitedly at the driver and there was another colossal BANG! They were off.

Hermione lowered the hood of her cloak. MacClivert's eyes instantly zeroed in on her red irises, his hospitable demeanor plummeted rapidly.

'Will that be _The Daily Prophet_ then, Miss. Collins?' MacClivert asked, far less enthusiastically this time.

Hermione licked her lips. ' _The Prophet_ if you please. Oh and Mr. MacClivert? If I give you the snack' she said carefully. 'Would you mind transfiguring it into a pair of dark glasses perhaps?' She gestured sheepishly to her scarlet eyes. 'A wonky color change charm' she lied easily. 'My little brother was practicing with my wand and then broke it during our new year's eve celebrations. My mother wasn't awake yet to fix my eye color.'

MacClivert brightened immediately, motioning for Hermione to follow him. Hermione walked into the compartment with an expression of benign interest.

'Not to worry Miss. Collins, we get all sorts of funny requests 'ere. Comes with the job I 'spose. I would offer to fix your eyes myself but I'm 'fraid I'd hurt your bonny looks'. He waggled his purple eyebrows, humming pleasantly to himself. MacClivert turned, picked up a chocolate frog from a counter, flourished his wand and handed her a rather eccentric pair of purple, leopard print cat-eye sunglasses. He pointed at the bouncing beds. 'They're spelled not to romp about after you sit on one. If they do bother you, just lie your head on the pillow. Be careful not to switch after you choose one, they're the jealous types. Now is there anything else I can do to make your journey more comfortable, Miss?' He asked smilingly.

'A drying charm too if you would be so kind' said Hermione ruefully, holding up a single soggy sleeve.

'Rough night?' MacClivert chuckled. Hermione nodded, grimacing. MacClivert waved his wand at her and she felt the familiar gust of warm wind, he nodded, satisfied. 'Well, we'll be in London by four this afternoon! I daresay you'll find that very few are as keen as Ollivander on a new year's day. Rest of 'em will be shut up, or making merry, 'cept perhaps the Leaky or those folk in Knockturn. But they'd be open even on their deathbeds.' MacClivert said and bustled back to the front of the bus. Hermione smiled fondly at his retreating back. She was alone.

Collapsing on a ricocheting bed, she unfurled the _Daily Prophet,_ her teeth worried her lower lip _,_ eyes flickering up to confirm the date.

_**1st of January 1948.** _

'Slimy Slytherins,' Hermione uttered to the thin air. In 1948 a young Voldemort would be working as a oily assistant at Borgin and Burkes.

Hermione clenched her teeth. She withdrew her coins purse, jingling it. Hermione had quietly withdrawn her life's savings before the Horcrux hunt, but it could only sustain her for so long. 'Who knew inflation would be a small mercy?' She muttered to herself. 

_Employment_ , she thought righteously. Hermione gave her fragile little bag a small shake, groping for a transcription of her grades. She had brought them along, just in case the Death Eaters should ever decide to ransack her residence while it was vacated. _As if I'd ever let them get their blasted hands on **my** transcripts, _Hermione thought viciously. She wilted quickly _, nobody willing to provide respectable pay would ever employ a O.W.L. level job applicant, I'll need to falsify the dates, the examiner's notes **and** my N.E.W.T. grades. _

Hermione groaned. She'd need to catch up on her N.E.W.T.s to be believable, _and_ additional training if the job happened to be specialized. _Good Godric_ , she thought, she'd need to perform an obscene number of charms, confund someone or _worse_ if they found something amiss. A trip to Flourish and Blotts would be absolutely paramount. She rummaged around her beaded bag. 

Reverently, she pulled out a bottle of perfume that Ron had once given her and Harry's Mokeskin pouch, staring at the objects mournfully. Shaking her head, she pushed them aside. _Another time._

Hermione shook open the Daily Prophet, impatiently skimming over an article debating who would succeed Leonard Spencer-Moon for Minister for Magic (it would be Wilhelmina Tuft). There was a scathing editorial on the superiority of Thiago Quintana's White River Monster wands, and an entire gossip column devoted to a haughty looking witch, Belvina Black and her unhappy marriage. Hermione scoffed.

Her eyes snapped up to a misted window, red eyes glinted back at her.

_'I have seen your most desperate desires...I can offer the opportunity to undeniably spare them...'_

She narrowed her eyes. 'What is my most desperate desire?' She asked her impassive reflection in hushed tones, as if the horcrux would decide now, of all times to declare itself.

'I wanted the three of us together: alive and unharmed. I wanted Voldemort finished. _'_ Hermione's voice was soft, as though she was afraid that someone might be listening. 'I didn't want to be lonely'. Hermione uttered longingly to the window, like someone in confession. Her red eyes seemed to gleam knowingly back at her.

Hermione knew she was not speaking of the loneliness one experiences amidst friends, but of a yearning for an experience she felt she had been deprived of. She pulled out the Marauders map that Harry had placed in her beaded bag, tracing the corridors lovingly towards one singular location. Hermione pressed her finger to the parchment like a knife where the Chamber of Secrets should have been labeled.

 _ **'I want justice.'**_ Hermione promised.


	4. The Power of Life and Death

Hermione handed a rowan wand back to a much younger, much sprightlier, Ollivander.

"They say rowan gossips" Hermione commented, smiling despite all she had been through. "I can't say I like to gossip." Hermione declared. She scoffed softly, haughtily pushing up her purple glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

Ollivander suppressed a laugh. " Not to worry, Miss Collins. We'll find you a consummate match here, somewhere!" Ollivander announced.

He spun around to face the shelves behind him, his white hands fluttering over wand boxes. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and pointed a single digit at a box. It was the one buried on the top shelf in a rather dusty corner, just underneath the cobwebbed eaves.

"Aha!" Ollivander chortled. He Leapt up onto a ladder and with the unlikely grace of a wiry monkey, his hand extracted a beaten looking box with worshipful anticipation. "Ah yes, why not—" The Wandmaker plucked a tan wand out giddily "—Yew, 10¾" long, phoenix feather, _Formidable._ "

Ollivander waited for Hermione to take the wand, but she did not move. Hermione's smile had died on her lips as though it had never existed.

_Hermione searched Harry's stricken face._

_'Voldemort. He's captured Ollivander, he's torturing him.' Harry said tremulously, clutching the scar on his forehead. 'There's a connection between our wands'._

_Hermione gripped Harry's hand harder, horrified. 'What do you mean? What kind of connection?' she asked urgently._

_Beside her, Ron's face had gone a ghastly alabaster. Harry closed his eyes._

_'Voldemort borrowed Lucius Malfoy's wand when I left Privet Drive. But, his first wand — his real wand — the yew one, 13½”, phoenix feather — the two feathers were given to him by Fawkes. Dumbledore told me himself, that our wands share feathers from the same Phoenix. He can't hurt me. But Voldemort **knows**_ _now, Ol-Ollivander had to tell him everything' said Harry, swallowing miserably. 'I'm_ ** _not_** _protected anymore. He's going to look for a more powerful wand.'_

It was not Harry's phoenix feather wand that Ollivander now offered to her waiting hand, but far, far worse. No, it was a wand whose attributes were _almost_ a precise replica of the future Dark Lord's own wand.

Hermione felt her blood run cold. As though struck, she could only stare, blearily, at the yew wand in Ollivander's outstretched hand.

_All you have to do is **share**_ **.**

"Well, go on, go on! Try her _—_ we don't have all day! It's only New Year’s Day once every year." Interjected Ollivander, his pale eyes fixed impatiently on her empty hand.

Finally, Hermione's hand reluctantly came up to clasp the hilt of the yew wand. Instantaneously, a pleasant warmth bloomed sweetly in her hand as affectionate as a lover's kiss, but Hermione's face had paled to the color of freshly fallen snow.

"Well? Give it a wave!" burst Ollivander, looking vaguely affronted. Hermione raised the wand and brought it down in a slicing motion through the air. The wand erupted _—_ ecstatic _—_ in a crackling blaze of blinding light, it was as though a great bolt of lightning had been mustered from the atmosphere, filling the room with streaks of electricity. Hermione gasped, transfixed as the light gentled and dissipated like scattered particles of stardust. The shop seemed to sizzle with the magic's residue energy.

Hermione _knew_ what this wand meant; she knew that the fact of her own corruption was undeniable now.

There was a tense silence before Ollivander clapped loudly. "Oh bravo! Simply glorious!" The wandmaker beamed at her from ear to ear. "A sublime match," he cried. Ollivander's wafer-thin hand reached out to take the wand from her, clearly intending to wrap it up and send Hermione on her merry way. 

Hermione flinched backwards.

"No", she said softly. "I refuse to take the wand." She pushed the wand back in the wandmaker's outstretched hand with an expression of undiluted loathing.

"Refuse?" Ollivander cried, flabbergasted. His pale eyes bulged at her. They looked rather like muggle golf balls; he was completely thunderstruck.

"I don't want it. " Hermione repeated bitterly. The thought of wielding a wand so dangerously similar to Lord Voldemort's...it made Hermione's fingers curl into bloodless fists at her sides.

Ollivander would likely never again look so utterly scandalized in his life, his bushy auburn eyebrows had risen so high up on his forehead—they looked comically as though they were about to fly off like broomsticks in his outrage.

" _This_ wand choose you! _Wants only you._ Do you have any idea how _rare_ it is for a yew wand to choose a master? Do you fathom how powerful such a—"

—Ollivander had abandoned his eager affect in favor of hard selling.

"—I am quite _aware_ Mr Ollivander.” Hermione waved her hand in dismissal. “The power of life and death. Fearsome. Inclined towards curses. Duelling. Protective. I am more than _aware."_ Hermione recited rather fiercely. She would not _suffer_ to be patronized on what was largely considered to be the darkest of all the wand woods.

But to accept such a wand...

"Miss Collins. You simply _must_ take her with you. You _must_ understand—" 

"—No, I do understand, truly, I do." Hermione interrupted, her tone softening slightly, swallowing a lump in her throat. It was tempting, to own such a powerful wand...But Hermione turned as though she was about to leave.

"M'lady!" Ollivander began, clucking his tongue at her. He had reached out to grasp her shoulder.

"I simply cannot let you leave without her." Ollivander proffered the yew wand towards her like it was a trophy.

She reappraised the yew wand in Ollivander's hand, and a newer, far more reckless idea formed in her mind like a second skeleton. 

Hermione's head snapped up; she licked her lips with fresh anxiety. "Can you show me a different wand?" Hermione said slowly. "If I agree to buy this one?" She added quickly, seeing Ollivander's exasperated expression. In an effort to show her sincerity, she picked up the yew wand from his grasp.

"I confess...I had different expectations for my second wand, you know. I've _always_ been very interested in wandlore...I had thought that I could get a different wand..."

Hermione lowered her head as though in shame and bitter disappointment.

Ollivander squinted at Hermione, she had the nasty feeling that he knew precisely what she was up to and did not approve of it in the slightest.

"So, you—I heard—that you have another wand, a _holly_ one." Hermione said quickly. "11" long, _phoenix feather_ core. It shared it's phoenix core with another yew wand, almost precisely like the one which choose me." She licked her lips. "It was just a different length, right?" Hermione babbled, suddenly very nervous.

Ollivander nodded slowly. "I—yes—I remember every wand I've ever sold. I sold the yew wand to a polite orphan boy, some years ago now...he would have graduated from Hogwarts by now." He said to himself, propping his chin in his hand.

"Oh yes, the other wand—its brother—the holly..." Ollivander shook his head, then stiffened. His eyes crawled up and down her. "But how did you know about all this?" The wandmaker scanned Hermione, now even more suspicious. His colorless eyes seemed to be trying to strip the cloak from her, then skin, leaving her soul, her mind, naked before him. 

_Drat._ Hermione cursed herself.

"It doesn't matter how I know Mr Ollivander, I'd like that wand." Hermione continued, surging on. "Please show me the holly wand."

"The wand chooses the witch—"

"—Mr Ollivander. Show me the holly wand. I-I... I am _most_ curious about it" Hermione fumbled. Unlike Harry and Ron, she had never been terribly good at rash action. Her glasses fell down to the tip of her nose, Hermione closed her eyes momentarily, inhaling deeply.

 _This is an opportunity. I must_ _dare like them, I must gamble, and I must succeed,_ she thought firmly. Now resolute, Hermione cast her doubts aside. But she made the horrendous mistake of looking up— without—pushing up her sunglasses.

The red in Hermione's eyes flashed back at Ollivander.

Gasping, Ollivander dropped an empty box meant for her yew wand, his face had paled to a sickly shade of papier-mâché. His hand lurched out, reaching for his own, hornbeam wand—

Hermione bolted.

Throwing Ollivander's wand behind her and her own— _newly acquired_ —yew wand had flown out and was now pointed threateningly at the space between the wandmaker's eyes. With her other hand, Hermione ripped her glasses from her face in frustration.

 _How could I be so rash and **illogical**_ , Hermione thought to herself furiously.

"Please _sir_ ," Hermione heard herself saying far more viciously, levelling her gleaming red eyes at Ollivander. "I _don't want_ to force you".

The young wandmaker seemed to dither for a moment. His pale eyes flickered to the ceiling, to the wands behind him, to her, then to his wand on the floor by the shop front. Hermione could practically feel his mind racing. A powerful wandmaker—in a wand shop—full of wands—with a strange young woman—likely a dark witch—threatening violence.

Ollivander shuffled backwards incrementally, his fingers furtively reaching for a wand box—

A sinister voice sneered at her in the depths of her skull.

 _'Your **weakness,** has cost you an opportunity to **protect** your friends,' _said the acrimonious voice. ' _Such a waste of brilliant chance to save the precious Harry Potter—'_

Hermione moved faster than she'd ever moved in her entire life, waving the wand like a whip and for the first time, cast the imperious curse.

_"Imperio."_

The spell ignited a kind of warm trill, perforating from her hand, trickling towards her spine. A feeling that was sweeter than honey fired in her veins and caressed Hermione in a reassuring embrace.

 _'You've done well,'_ she heard Locket-Riddle coo to her.

Hermione heard but did not deign the serpent a response.

Ollivander's pale eyes had gone glassy, shining like sickles. He swayed back and forth as though he were white flag with a pole attached to the shop floor. His eyes suddenly refocused with a feverish brightness.

"Oh—oh yes, of course! The holly wand? Right away!" The wandmaker said with a deep bow, then turned and scurried to the back of the shop. This time, returning much more merrily with a pale narrow box.

Hermione undid the box herself, gently unfolding the wrapping paper. _Yes_ , Hermione confirmed to herself, _this is the same wand I snapped in Godric's Hollow._ Hermione rolled the holly wand over in her hands, bringing it under the slim stab of candlelight in the shop, then placed it in her beaded bag.

Turning away, she fondled the handle of her new yew wand. The wand rejoiced at her touch, emitting little silver sparks of light.

Hermione shot a cursory glance at Ollivander, but the man seemed to have visibly deflated in awe. His eyes were filled with a worshipful fascination and were glued solely on her wand hand. Ollivander seemed to fear and relish in the reflective glory of having her wield a powerful wand—that _he_ had made. The mere sight of his reverence made Hermione nauseous.

Ollivander bounced, humming pleasantly to himself and then held out his hand subserviently. This time, in silently offering—again—to take the yew wand and return it safely back in its packaging; as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Hermione stepped towards him.

 _Stupefy_ , she shot non-verbally.

The spell hit Ollivander square in the neck and he fell to the floor in a boneless heap. Hermione rounded on him like a circling vulture. Hoisting him up by her wand and depositing him on the spindly chair behind the counter.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered, her expression falling into one of deep sadness looking at this, younger, very spirited Ollivander. Hermione choked back the tears that threatened to fall.

"I have to do this. If I don't—one day— _he'll_ _find out_ about Harry's wand. I have to protect them," she croaked apologetically at the immobilized figure. Hermione examined him: Ollivander's brow had only just started to pucker with age, time had started to pluck the auburn hair from his scalp and pepper him with his characteristic silver. But the bushy eyebrows, the smile lines on the sides of his mouth were still how she remembered them. Since the time Hermione was just an overeager eleven-year-old, desperate to prove herself as a decent witch in Diagon Alley.

Hermione trained her wand steadily on his forehead.

" _Obliviate_." Hermione said.

A thin but vibrant string of memory emerged, she curled it around her wand skilfully, as though she was curling a strand of pasta. The memory was tentative, still new—this impression of her—Hermione brought her wand down cleanly. Pressing on, she summoned the entangled memories of Fawkes, of the creation of the holly and the yew wands and of the painfully polite eleven-year-old Tom Riddle coming to purchase a yew wand. Hermione brought her own yew wand down, slicing away at the memories. Hermione removed them from Ollivander's mind forevermore.

Now, the strands of memory hovered in the dusty shop air like sleepy fireflies.

In a flourishing motion, Hermione vanished them, but hesitated on the memory of Tom Riddle. She considered it briefly—floating softly in the air—like pale green sprites.

_Know thy enemy._

Hermione, flicking her wand at the counter transfigured the narrow box, initially intended for Harry's wand, into a glass vial and trickled the memory of Tom Riddle within. She corked it and pocketed it alongside Harry's wand in her beaded bag.

Turning and once again, training her wand on Ollivander's forehead, Hermione filled the empty space in his mind with a fond memory of two challenging customers—Ivan and Dragomir—young enthusiasts of wandlore. They had travelled all the way from Bulgaria during their winter holidays to purchase two of his marvellous wands...on a New Year’s Day in 1948. With another casual sweep of Hermione's wand, the pile of tried wands she had accumulated zoomed back to their respective boxes and slotted themselves into their original shelves.

 _Not a trace,_ Hermione thought intently.

Hermione picked up Ollivander's wand from the shop floor and placed it on his counter—just—within reach of his inert form. Spinning, Hermione extracted precisely 14 galleons from her coin purse and placed the galleons within the wandmaker's coin drawer. Withdrawing her rather ludicrous purple glasses from her pocket and placing them back on her nose, she brought the hood of her cloak over her eyes.

Casting one last look at the unconscious Ollivander, Hermione left without another word.

 _I have two wands._ Hermione thought, suddenly gleeful, suddenly triumphant. 

It was time to _plot._


	5. Cry Havoc

> "Cry havoc said he who fought chaos with chaos, and let slip the dogs of war." - Julius Caesar (William Shakespeare)

A week later, Hermione stood alone at a shuttered windowpane. She looked to be like a wraith, supernatural and tranquil in her isolation.

She stayed in a modest bedroom, but it had the feeling of a gloomy, padded cell.

Charmed fast to the walls were a veritable constellation of old Daily Prophet clippings; magically duplicated pages from spell books; dates; moving pictures and glistening Pure-blood pedigree charts. Numerous red shimmering lines connected each parchment to another, ceaselessly construing a cobweb of connections _—_ like the magical equivalent of a detective's pin board.

Such was the mind of the one Hermione Granger.

Hermione had extinguished all light in the room and the wooden floor was effectively desecrated by empty plates of food, transfigured clothes, dark curios and a hoard of old black or leather-bound books that she had practically strong-armed, from The Imperial Wizarding Library. There were also threadbare armchairs; a tottering desk; a moldy wardrobe and an old feather-bed that sat like sentinels in the dark.

On the bed, lay a letter and an ancient article from The Daily Prophet. The page was turned to a charming section called the Wicked Witch's gossip column. The page blared a particularly scurrilous headline:

 **HERBERT BURKE: A LECHEROUS ADULTERER OR FAITHFUL HUSBAND?** _(August 1929)_

_Rumors continue to fly about the libertine son of notorious swindler, Caractacus Burke, owner of Borgin and Burkes. In the last couple of weeks, Herbert Burke, the current Deputy Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation was spotted in New York, entering the Ritz-Carlton Hotel with a litany of witches; **none** of whom were his wife. _

_His lawful wife, Mrs Belvina Burke (née Black) remains at their residence in South Kensington, with their two sons and one daughter. “In most marriages, I imagine there are only two people. But it would appear that Herbert Burke is determined to include fifty more,” said an anonymous source, close to the Burke family._ _Chiefly among his scarlet mistresses was a Muggleborn expatriate, who refused to give her name or comment._

 _“Herby is most certainly not a blood traitor! He is very committed to his purebred children. Now you can sod off from my property, or I will set all three of my house elves on you. Bunch of bleeding vultures—" Denied his harassed-looking wife._ _According to our sources in the Magical Congress of the United States of American (MACUSA) the Americans find Mr Herbert Burke’s conduct offensive._

The article had a moving picture of the backs of a young Herbert Burke, arm in arm with three witches, one of whom he was canoodling passionately with.

Glancing at her watch, Hermione strode fast to the mirror in her wardrobe. Bending to the floor, she picked up a rich mulberry cloak, clipping it around her neck purposefully. Twirling Harry's wand, Hermione transfigured a leather-bound book into a quaint leather purse for her to carry. Slipping the holly wand up her sleeve, Hermione lowered the hood of her cloak to shadow her face. She pointed her own, new yew wand at her eyes,

 _Crinus Oculi,_ she cast non-verbally. The blinking arterial red darkened into the shade of a rich sangria wine. Hermione let out a huff of indignation.

In her change in appearance, there were only grim and grimmer conclusions to come to. She was more than a battered diary, more than quivering Quirrel, more than even Voldemort's pet snake. A new, hybrid creature, torn from the pages of some bizarre mythology and sowed back into the Earth. It had stolen her breath, then with a new wardrobe, refashioned her anew from the ruins...and Hermione looked _beautiful._

But Lord Voldemort’s influence was an ever-evolving complication. He had an effect on her mind. She could scarcely sleep a wink for fear that he could take over, like Hyde to a Dr Jekyll. 

Sometimes, she could feel him trill through her like a shot of brandy.

A part of Tom Riddle's soul lived perennially inside her breast. His words would light up in her head to take their deep residence in her darkness, arcing quickly from thought to thought like Icarus trying to touch the sun.

And Hermione vowed to make him _fall_.

Frustratingly, whenever Hermione reached out with her nascent Occlumency, to encircle, to entrap him, contain him like a pig in a pen; he slipped past her like smoke. It was fearful civil war within herself for dominance. _Madness as a defense against terror,_ Hermione quoted resentfully, _madness as a defense against grief._ But he always slipped back. He could not resist.

Hermione held her yew wand in a tight fist.

Eyes gleaming momentarily under her hood, she flourished her wand and a pile of prophet articles unfolded on a pile on her bed, like a magnificent array of tarot cards. Hermione flicked her wrist again, summoning a letter from her bed. In slanted, aggressively cursive writing, it read:

_Dear Hermione,_

_Fine. In three days hence, I shall call upon you in The White Wyvern._ _The bar. Two o'clock. Sharp. The wizard in a cloak of Juniper._ _You will wear purple._

_We shall test the strength of your spurious accusations._

_I will approach you. _

_Herbert Burke._

There was a flash silver light like a small bomb had gone off in the room.

The room now looked invariably spotless. The incriminating walls had been enveloped in an atrociously patterned sunflower wallpaper, her clothes had neatly hung themselves back inside of the wardrobe and the piles of grubby plates had been vanished. The miscellaneous dark curios were transfigured into random items for decoration. A garish lamp, a fountain pen, hideous gargoyles on the windowpanes, a red plush jewellery box...

Every black and leather-bound book had been shrunken to the size of a thimble, settled carefully at the bottom of the plush box. Hermione shut the lid firmly. _Midnight reading,_ she thought, amused. Hermione drew close to the bed. Revising the Daily Prophet articles like they were plans for a battle formation.

_Yes, Herbert Burke’s indiscretions would serve perfectly._

With a faint pop, Hermione's slim, hooded figure re-appeared at the antechamber in the White Wyvern.

The air was thick with smoke and the pungent scent of stale Firewhisky. 

The White Wyvern's bar had walls that were slabs of ashy, fused dragon bone, blocking out all slithers of natural light. The sweeping floor was bewitched, a queer aurora of dancing purple, blue and green light; dancing eternally beneath the busy feet of its patrons. The bar itself was the giant skull of a Wyvern, one of malignant aspect carved into the wall; some twenty feet high, its gaping fangs have long since been filed down to waiting chairs.

Hermione eyes roved with the swiftness of purpose. If she succeeded today, she could go straight for Riddle's castle. If she failed...

Well, she would be an invader without a garrison.

A large, hunchbacked wizard in a Juniper-colored cloak was already seated at the bar, nursing a goblet of expensive Goblin cognac. Seeing this, Hermione set off with light, quick strides, her long mulberry cloak billowing behind her as she picked her way past the tables towards the bar.

When she drew closer to the bone highchairs, the wizard drew his cloak more tightly around his head. Pretending not to notice the wizard, Hermione strolled to the bar and rapped her knuckles on the dragon scale table. Shooting the Juniper wizard, a furtive look, Hermione cleared her throat.

"Afternoon Sanguini," she greeted the vampire bartender pleasantly. "Do you mind arranging for a tray of small Cauldron cakes and a pot of tea to be delivered to my room? You can put it on my tab."

Now less than a foot away she could feel the wizard in juniper examining her brazenly. The vampire nodded, hurrying away from the bar to relay her order.

"Are you Miss Hermione?" Came a strained voice. The hunchback wizard had crept closer to her. She could see he had large, bulging wary eyes, he was hairless with green-tinged skin and lips puckered like a sardine. She nodded.

"I am." Said Hermione tartly. "Why don't we go up to my room here? That way, we won't be overheard."

Without waiting for a reply, Hermione turned and strode imperiously away. The wizard winced, looking as though he might argue and then turned and hobbled after her through the bar. Hermione darted up the ancient carved steps, stalking past a diverse range of small and large doors (there was even a door in the ceiling), stopping at a blue door that hardly reached her chest. Hermione bent, pressing her palm on her door and it glowed a faint green, swinging open. Hermione stood back for the wizard to enter first. He was bent double and breathing heavily behind her, but his stooped figure scurried in. Hermione stepped in behind him, shutting the door behind her with a sharp click.

There was a loud clang.

"Would you like me to hang your cloak up—" Hermione began. But by the time she had swivelled back to face the wizard, he had straightened to an intimidating height.

On the floor was an enormous silver-gilt tureen, it seemed that he had charmed it to his back in the guise of a hunchback. The macabre soup dish took the shape of a silver, swaddled baby being held up by a platter, made of two metal hands.

Lowering his hood, the wizard tapped his vine wand on the top of his head; in the same vein as someone cracking an eggshell. His fishy appearance dissolved.

A broad-shouldered man appeared in its place. In his fifties, the wizard had a bull-like affect to him, red-faced, with stern aristocratic features; fiercely bearded and curly brown hair flecked with silver. The man had glaring, bloodshot blue eyes. Perhaps, he was a wizard who may have been handsome once, but now he looked on the verge of expiring.

"Herbert Burke," he said stiffly. Sharp blue eyes scrutinized her room and his lips curled into a slightly condescending smile. Without warning, Herbert removed his juniper cloak and threw it at Hermione, she caught it with a barely repressed squeak of surprise.

Without so much a peep, Herbert marched through the room checking under her bed for hidden inhabitants; prodding her armchairs aggressively with his wand; opening her wardrobe and knocking on it; into the bathroom, he went to stamp his dragon hide boots in her bathtub.

Hermione, sensing her opportunity, ran her fingers through the damask cloak and collected several long strands of Herbert Burke's hairs; covertly tucking them safely away. _Let's just hope he doesn't own any cats_ , Hermione thought, dryly.

After ransacking her room, Herbert nodded, seemingly satisfied with his perusal. He moved to stand in front of her; holding out an offending hand. It would seem that Herbert Burke had the mannerisms of a sailor and the paranoia of a back-dealing politician.

"Right girl," He snapped rudely. "Your wand. Give it here."

Hermione blinked up at him irately, still holding his cloak.

He stuck his nose up at her. "What? Do you think I'm greener than a Welsh dragon? You could be just some witch trying to confund me for a pretty galleon."

 _How right you would be too_ , thought Hermione, _but that suspicion doesn't help me._ She needed to inspire some form of familial affection, if not that then duty; but certainly not resentment.

So Hermione bit her lip and recovered, plucking Harry's holly wand from her right sleeve and handing it to Herbert. The wizard veered off, placing the holly wand and his own vine wand on top of her dusty wardrobe. Pretending to be unruffled by all this, she undid her cloak, hanging it besides his on the back of her door. As calmly as she could, Hermione moved back to the table where a tea tray had suddenly appeared on the table and she poured them two cups of tea.

Herbert was still on his feet, his head swiveling around her room rather like an oversized owl. Hermione cleared her throat. "Would you like me to peel back the floorboards so you can check under those too?" She asked indignantly, frowning as though offended by his mistrusting demeanour. "Or, would you please _sit,_ _sir_?"

Glaring daggers, the wizard stopped in front of an empty armchair and sat down. He deposited the silver tureen on the floor between them with a giant clang. Hermione jumped and pretended to dither with her cup of tea. She Sipped on it primly, looking anywhere but at the tureen. Sniffing loudly, Herbert took a large gulp of his own cup and indelicately wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Then, the wizard smashed his cup down on the table. "Not a word of our correspondence to so much as a soul?" Herbert snarled.

 _And now we tango,_ thought Hermione wryly. Her eyes flickered to his elbows on his knees, he leaned towards Hermione like a bull ready to charge. Hermione set her teacup on her saucer.

"No!" Her voice carefully inflected to show hurt. "Mr Burke, I have not breathed a word. I have conducted myself with the highest discretion!" She said shrilly, sounding outraged. Hermione tried to act as though his question was beyond insulting.

Herbert nodded imperceptibly, he still looked tense. But the tendons in his neck relaxed.

"I do not detect an American accent." He stated, eyes set penetratingly on her.

"Oh!" Hermione said, as though greatly pained by his obvious suspicion. "...you may _not_ recall but my mother was a—a expatriate B-British Muggleborn." Stuttered Hermione quietly.

Looking down timidly, to her own astonishment, Hermione felt tears well up in her eyes. "She—She taught me how to speak in her way, you see. Very eloquent—I mean— _eloquently_!" Hermione spluttered. "But I am so _glad_ to hear that you don't think I have an accent, she tried _endlessly_ to—"

"—Enough." Herbert held up a hand. The wizard looked her up and down boldly, blue eyes lingered indecently below her waist. "Well, she must have been a remarkably pretty peach, but I don't _remember_ her." Herbert bared his teeth at her in a disbelieving grimace. Repulsed, Hermione thought they looked rather like a keys on piano forte.

She perked up in false eagerness.

"—Did you remember all the witches you had dalliances with?" She blurted, then covered a hand over her mouth, as though she couldn't believe in her own audacity. "Oh, I—I'm so sorry! It's just—just I read about you in the papers—my mother kept some—I". Hermione deliberately fumbled with false sense of rising hysterical horror.

Herbert red face darkened to a revolting shade of puce. "Be careful now, witch. We are here at _my_ behest. " He said with a low growl. "I know when I am being sold some _centaurshit_.” Herbert spat on Hermione’s floor. “My father, Caractacus Burke is a well-connected wizard. Such _useful_ contacts. I'm sure I could find some beggared wizard to _conveniently_ help...”

 _You mean get rid of me,_ Hermione thought _._ _How charming,_ _truly the words of a gentleman._ She had hardly expected Herbert _Burke_ to rejoice at the _supposed_ circumstances of her birth. Of course Herbert didn't remotely believe in her tale, why should he? He was a Burke, who didn't understand anything that didn't stack like money. At best, the falsified evidence she had sent him had been circumstantial. Her tale looked as tall as it was false. And Hermione knew a man like Herbert Burke was not a betting man...

No, he happened to be the only son of the most avaricious gentleman to grace the grounds of Hogwarts. Hermione highly doubted that Caractacus Burke became one of the richest wizards alive with a firm handshake and dumb luck. Herbert Burke needed undeniable proof of a connection. She had anxiously anticipated this, and had planned to combat it.

Herbert Burke bent to the floor and lifted the lid off of the tureen. At this sight, Hermione's face flashed with fleeting expression of fear that was quickly smothered by one of polite interest. But Herbert's own face was suddenly eloquent with trepidation, he cast the lid aside.

A thin sheen of yellow liquid gathered on the metal insides of the tureen, like stomach acid.

Herbert coughed. "This silver tureen once belonged the vampire Ivan IV Vasilyevich of Russia, more commonly known as Ivan the terrible. Unlike most of his _kind—_ " Herbert intoned with his lip curling in that of supreme disdain.

"—He could not recognize the scent of his own offspring. Ivan commissioned a skilled wizard to enchant this soup bowl. In this tureen, the Tsar would place his new-born bloodsuckers in it. If it should happen the child was _not_ his, it was boiled into a kind of broth, or a soup." The snappish wizard held out his hand to Hermione. "It has been _rectified_ —spelled to recognize _**my**_ offspring. A strand of your hair will suffice." Herbert said in a low voice.

 _The more winding the path, the more treacherous the road_ , Hermione thought. Now If her plan didn’t work—

Hermione nodded her assent. Her left hand reached up to her scalp. She feigned plucking a long strand of hair, surreptitiously extracting a slither of Herbert’s hair from her sleeve. With bated breath she dropped it into the silver tureen. Herbert quickly shut the lid as though it were an oven.

The tureen came _alive_.

The silver baby opened its mouth and wailed like a banshee. The baby’s arms flailed wildly, the sides of the lid began to smoke. Two horrible silver eyes flickered open. Chips of ice of the palest blue _glowed_ —

Holding her breath, Hermione stared at the soup bowl beseechingly.

The lid flew off and the strand of hair was intact.

Herbert Burke roared, pulling a giant clump of hair from his beard. He threw the silver tureen against the wall. His abnormally red face became bloodless and his hands trembled. The wizard looked wildly around Hermione’s room as though he wanted nothing more than to dash out of her door—

They sat in a long silence that stretched out like a rope was stretched between them. Herbert now looked like a deflated old tire. The wizard buried his giant bullish head in his hands and emitted low whines. He said nothing.

“Mr B-Burke?” Tried Hermione timidly.

Herbert raised his head. He was still trembling. He swallowed and looked anywhere but at her. Hermione noticed that his hands had come away glistening and wet. He had gotten to his feet again.

She gulped looking away guiltily, as though she were intruding on a deeply profound moment.

 _The oaf did threaten to vanish you_ , intoned a velvet voice. _The existence of an illegitimate daughter may be false, but it didn't make his continuing infidelity any less real,_ announced another even colder voice, in the back of Hermione’s mind.

Herbert staggered to Hermione’s shuttered window and squinted through her shutters onto Knockturn Alley below. He did not face her.

 _What is the face of a coward?_ _The back of his abnormally red neck,_ hissed the embittered Locket. 

Hermione swallowed nervously, quashing Lord Voldemort.

“I—” Hermione began. 

“— _Silence_.” He said in a low, hoarse voice.

Hermione nodded slowly, her pulse speeding up.

“Nearly twenty years ago, my wife’s brother nearly blasted off my entire family— _my children_ — off of the Black family tapestry.” Herbert said sullenly. “It was not because I was in bed with witches who were not my wife...”

Herbert sniffed generously and took out a handkerchief made of flobberworm silk. “No, it was because The Daily Prophet wrote that my entanglements didn’t discriminate. Purebloods, Halfbloods, Mudbloods, even Muggle girls... _lust is not prejudiced_.” He turned to look at her, his mouth had twisted as though he had just swallowed a drought of rat poison. “Your mother, she is a Mudblood?”

Hermione's eyes darkened; flashing red.

“Was.”

“Ah.” He said, tone suddenly sharp, his face hardening. Herbert seemed to regain some of his usual brisk, crabby manner. 

But _Hermione_ let him stew in silence first. She wondered if he’d broach the subject.

“...Nineteen years...is she why I was never owled?” Herbert finally croaked.

“Yes” Hermione said at measure. “...I don't have anyone left." Her voice was full of contempt. From the shutters, Herbert’s full torso had turned to look at her.

She cleared her throat. “Sir, as far as the Black family will know, Herbert Burke never had a illegitimate daughter in America.”

 _The road to victory is paved with casualties_ _and...hypocrisy._

Hermione’s voice was carefully controlled.

“I won’t say a word, sir.” Said Hermione, lilted with insinuation.

Herbert ran two idle fingers along her windowpane, he held them up to his eyes for inspection. It seemed he understood her meaning. He stalked back across the room towards her—

"...And I will reward you liberally for your silence, Hermione” He said quietly, finally affording her the respect of being called by her name. Herbert Burke stood in front of her now, towering over her seated form.

“What would you want in exchange?"

Hermione bowed her head deferentially. “A wise man once said that a rich wizard is always sold to the institution which made him rich.” Hermione said carefully. “I ask, what made you rich, Mr Burke?”

Herbert stared as though he had been doused with ice cold water.

"My father.” Said Herbert, disbelieving. "You want _Borgin and Burkes_?"

Hermione smiled sweetly.

_From the lion's den to the nest of serpents._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter was inspired by HOC w/ quotes.


	6. Crooked

At dawn, Hermione awoke as if the sudden sunshine were an alarm. The windows had been forcibly opened and the whole sky emptied into the room. Sitting bolt upright and _shrieking,_ wand flying out underneath her pillow.

"Miss is to get out of bed, at once!" Squawked a creature, in a high-pitched voice.

Balancing precariously on Hermione's torso was a house elf. No taller than a ruler, with enormous green eyes the size of Christmas baubles and wearing a fluffy tea towel.

"Oh, Bon Bon—how many times—have I told you— _warn me!_ " Shrieked Hermione.

The house elf pirouetted off her torso and landed on the wooden panels, dropping nimbly into a bow. Smiling slyly, the house waved her arm and Hermione was flipped out of bed and her bed covers began to make themselves.

Ever since Hermione had her little meeting with Herbert Burke, his house elf had been popping in and out of her room like a random bomb. Each visit consisted of a different breed of pandemonium: from a hurricane of cleaning (that nearly up heaved her magical detective chart); aggressive furniture swapping (Hermione had had noise complaints); silently replacing her _entire_ witches' wardrobe; kidnapping her to open a secret vault in Gringotts (Herbert anonymously filled it with an ample allowance). Finally, the elf had taken up the unfortunate task of lecturing Hermione in feminine propriety of a well-bred witch. 

In other words, her faux father had commissioned her a mini governess. It was intolerably insulting, but Hermione found she had grown exceedingly fond of Bon Bon. As for Herbert, they communicated through brief letters through the elf.

Herbert Burke was warming to her.

The elf snapped her wiry fingers and a shimmering black dress robes appeared, floating up near the ceiling. Hermione could never suppress the suspicion that the house elf was rather enjoying herself.

"Today," squeaked the elf. "Master Herbert has ordered this honored elf to escort Miss to meet Mr Caractacus Burke," the elf said, bossily.

At that, Hermione sobered immediately, scrambling to her feet from the floor. _Finally,_ Hermione thought. _Something tangible to bite into._

"Bon Bon is proud to make sure that Miss doesn't dress like a common hag."

Hermione felt her face redden, she spluttered indignantly at the unperturbed elf.

Minutes later, Hermione looked enchantingly polished in a dress of black watered silk, with capped translucent sleeves. Hair now in a braided bun, fixed with a half-veil pillbox hat; elbow length gloves and heels. Amazingly, Bon Bon had complied to her wishes and the dress had hidden pockets for her wand.

Although, Hermione would only admit it to the enchanted mirror, she always felt rather fetching after Bon Bon had dressed her.

The house elf seized the back of Hermione's knee.

"We is ready," announced Bon Bon and with a sound like a pistol going off, they disappeared.

The world poured back and forth between Hermione's eyes.

Hermione and the house elf reappeared in the vast, unlit shop. Borgin and Burkes looked much as it did when she had entered at sixteen – the trio in hot pursuit of Draco Malfoy.

_A different time._

There were spiked iron grilles lowered over the dusty shop window, fastened shut. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling were heavily rusted, spiked instruments. The assortment of rare and dark curios was locked in glass displays, locked away. Hermione examined a bouquet of dried fairies; a stolen royal scepter; bloodstained international teleportation stamps; Runespoor eggs and a taxidermy kappa.

 _Which are all_ ** _illegal_** , Hermione registered sanctimoniously. But even worse, were the evil-looking masks, observing her from the walls. Waxen and of a demonic affect, they looked suspiciously like the very same masks used at the Quidditch World Cup—where Lucius Malfoy blasted through tents and tortured the Roberts family...

Bon Bon gave Hermione's skirts a strong tug and gave a signal to follow her.

She nodded, begrudgingly, and followed the elf across the shop floor and behind the counter of bones. They stopped abruptly at a familiar painting of a rather fierce-looking Tudor witch. Bon Bon threw herself into a ludicrously low bow that flattened her beak-like nostrils to the carpet. The portrait raised a haughty red eyebrow at Hermione's veiled face.

"Is this her?" Asked the portrait in a soft, musical voice.

"Yes, Mistress Elizabeth!" Nodded Bon Bon, with a look of positive adoration on her scrunched face. Hermione examined the portrait curiously, quickly realizing she was goggling at a former headmistress at Hogwarts: the deplorable Elizabeth Burke. "This house elf has the honor of bringing Miss Hermione to see noble Master Burke, in his study!"

"Password?" Said Elizabeth Burke in a cool voice.

"Tis' better to be seen and not heard!" Piped Bon Bon.

"You would do well to remember that," intoned the portrait darkly, eyes trained on Hermione. Elizabeth Burke swung forwards to reveal a descending, moving spiral staircase, onto which Hermione and Bon Bon stepped.

"Level One, The Grecque Nautique Study." Chirped Bon Bon.

Hermione hastily stifled a shocked gasp. _There are_ ** _more_** _levels?!_ She thought, disbelieving. _The sheer scale of such an undetectable extension charm—_

Instantly, they were carried down and down in smooth circles to an imposing iron door. The house elf beside her seemed to be carefully averting her eyes. The brass knocker was the head of a decapitated Chimaera, its teeth protruded, bloodthirsty.

"Bon Bon," said Hermione, kindly, making to step forwards to intervene. "Please, I can—"

Ignoring her, the house elf shoved Hermione backwards and bounded up; pricking her fingers on a sharp canine. A split second later, Hermione was back on her feet. It took every ounce of Hermione’s self-control not to bodily seize the elf and to lecture Bon Bon on her own worth.

The smidgen of blood was absorbed, and the Chimaera knocker sprung to life. 

_Well,_ Hermione thought furiously, _at least I know where Voldemort got his inspiration for blood payment from._

"Finally! Is that you and the girl, Bon Bon?" Asked a new, rich and pleasant voice. Bemused, Hermione now pictured a pot-bellied, cheerful-faced old man. "Herpo's effing staff, we—I have been waiting here since dawn."

 _We?_ Hermione thought suspiciously. 

Bon Bon lowered her head apologetically. "This elf offers Master Burke her many apologies for her worthless tardiness—"

Hermione strode determinedly forwards. "—It was my fault _not_ Bon Bon's, Mr Burke." She said in a remarkably neutral tone. "I'm sorry for the delay, I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long," She cleared her throat. "But as an authority on myself, I can confirm that this is Hermione" she added in a slightly thornier tone.

There was a brief silence followed by gruff laughter. "Well, then _Hermione._ Welcome! Please, enter!"

The iron door swung inwards, revealing a chamber of colossal proportions. Out flowed a musical melody of syrupy, sweet music.

Without warning, Hermione was almost bowled over. At the threshold of the room, the locket's magic _roared_ to life. She was assailed with the sudden but acute _pull_ to ardently follow a tantalizing, magical trail blaze in a different direction.

Hermione swallowed anxiously, hastily resurrecting her nascent Occlumency barriers; suffocating its magic. Something became very clear to Hermione then:

Tom Riddle was _close_ , closer than ever before.

Hermione marched forwards with the elf, passing a stray empty chair by the door. The room was a sloping dome, and cool blue light filtered down through thick glass, bathing the room in a sapphire glow. Above them, was a bewitched vivarium, swamped with magical sea creatures. Hermione spotted a fat Hippocampus and a lounging Ramora. But most disturbing of all were the pale sirens floating behind the glass, suspended in the water. Only their lips seemed to move in an outcry of alluring melodies.

Hermione hid her intense abhorrence to the sight, her lips parted in feigned admiration. 

At the center of the round floor was a bookcase. In front of it, a long-painted Mongolian table where Herbert's silver tureen glimmered on the top like a crown jewel.

Caractacus Burke stood in his chair, his corpulent face slanted in a winning smile.

"Hermione," he said gaily, gesturing grandly to the seat before him. "Please."

Wearing crooked, gilt-silver scissor glasses and dressed in an eccentric eau de nil suit; the old warlock had his arms out on either side of him in a welcome expression. Like Herbert, he was big-boned and heavy-jawed. But he had a long, carefully braided, white beard. Caractacus’s features were less aristocratic, broader and his nose was flatter as though to suggest a snout.

Where his son had the effect of a bull, Caractacus Burke had the aspect of a fat old boar.

Caractacus clapped his hands commandingly and the merfolk instantly stopped singing.

She moved over to the table and Caractacus brushed his whiskered old lips over her hand. It seemed that where his son was crabby and inhospitable, Caractacus was boisterous but courteous.

"Pleasure, Mr Burke," said Hermione quietly and sat down in the seat, it was covered with thick blue velvet that stuck to her dress. Hermione leaned forwards, unsticking it from the fabric.

Hermione lifted her veil and revealed her smiling face to her faux grandfather.

Although the corners of his lips lifted up further, Caractacus's eyes remained unaffected. They lingered, with what could only be described as clinical interest for only a moment, then darted away.

Unusually short and fat, he had to crane his neck over the desk to address Bon Bon directly.

"Bon Bon, you can pop off now. I daresay Herbert's Belvina and the _**other**_ children will be awake and hungry by now. You don't want them to miss you, do you?"

Understanding his indirect slight, Hermione's smile tightened rapidly into a hard line. The house elf bowed deeply to them both then vanished with a pop.

Caractacus settled himself back down into his chair.

His wormy lips stretched into a sharp smile. "How _silly_ of me, to dismiss the house elf so soon! I must be getting old." He shook his head in shame. "This early in the morning, we could prophet from some breakfast." Caractacus clucked his tongue at Herbert's tureen that still had the strands of hair in it. "We can't have soup now, can we?"

Caractacus had said it without saying it at all.

_Shame, the tureen confirmed our relation._

Hermione's eyes narrowed, sensing an imminent attack.

Caractacus twitched his wand and a tray of food appeared. There were gold ringed china cups and a golden plate of fat strawberries and watering raspberries. A mouth-watering sight, if Hermione did not feel so rankled. But It occurred to her, that at this time of year such fruit was out of season. Even magically grown, they should not look this...plump. She wondered what Harry and Mad-Eye Moody would tell her if she drank or ate _anything_ offered by a potentially hostile adversary.

Caractacus seemed to side eye the fruit in distaste.

"Now then, I thought we ought to have a little tête-à-tête about you." Caractacus said blithely, "I hear you're staying in the White Wyvern! You arrived in Britain, when?"

Hermione noticed he left his wand on the table; it was the magical equivalent of leaving a gun on the dining table.

Neither witch nor warlock touched the tea.

"December, the 31st—1947—if you'd like the _exact_ date, Mr Burke." She responded stiffly, careful to use the American usage of the date.

"At the brink of New year? From the new world," Caractacus said wistfully. "How poetic," He whistled, chuckling softly. "I see that Herbert has already lavished some of his...budding fatherly affection on you." He said, gesturing lazily to her luxurious new attire. "Quite svelte, aren't you? Did you play Quidditch in Ivernmorny? I daresay Herbert has been feeding you well, now?" He said, with a tone of apparent concern.

Hermione doubted Caractacus cared for her health or sporting ability. In fact, she understood the deeper meaning, _precisely_.

_Quick to pinch of your father's pocket, aren't you?_

To him, Hermione was no better than a starved, stray animal – begging for scraps at supper.

She was not _amused._

Hermione crossed her legs. "We play Quodpot in America, it was actually inspired by Quidditch." She responded curtly.

"Oh?" Caractacus raised his bushy eyebrows in feigned shock. "You Americans!" He threw back his enormous, white head and chortled. "Always so eager to duplicate the _better,_ original things. Small wonder Herbert was always so fond of the _free_ world! Always had an appetite for delicious looking, _unremarkable_ foods –over and over. He never developed _**my**_ more _refined palate_." Caractacus smiled blithely, twiddling his thumbs. "Drink the tea, _my dear_. Before it goes cold. _"_

With the back of his wrinkled hand, Caractacus stroked the painted table admiringly.

He had insulted her again, without directly insulting her at all.

_Herbert may be blind to how ordinary you are. But I see that you're a pretty witch with no extraordinary attributes._

Hermione wanted nothing more than to reach across and throttle him with his own tie. Every word that left his mouth was a carefully packaged jibe, and she had heard _enough_.

"I'm afraid I don't have an appetite for tea or fruit right now." She snapped. "Let _me_ remind _you_ that the condition for my silence was that I remain at Borgin and Bur—"

Caractacus rose a fat finger, his expression amused.

"—with Herbert, not with me." He said pleasantly. "Discussions are not the same as commitment, my dear. I see no _value_ in employing another, infinitely more inferior shop assistant." Caractacus said, in a matter-of-fact manner. "Just as I see no merit, in allowing you to strut about, flaunting _Herbert's_ money when he already has three, perfectly good children— _by marriage_." Caractacus folded his hands on his lap. "I am not Herbert, Hermione. When _**I**_ catch more of the same fish, I throw it back in the sea."

Hermione's eyes fixed straight before her onto his crooked glasses, her face carefully blank. But she understood it all now in the blistering speed afforded by a red hot, rage.

Hermione had severely misjudged the situation. She had assumed, that like his son, the Caractacus would come quietly. As it transpired, it seemed that he cared little for the idea that they may be cut from the same cloth.

Caractacus Burke may be a slave to anything that produced gold. But above all, he saw himself as a collector of rare and powerful artifacts...and people. In his mind, Hermione was a mediocre copy of a product he already possessed. He didn’t need another shop assistant no more than he needed another grandchild.

He was a Horace Slughorn of sinister proportions. This, as well as the mere belief that Tom Riddle was _her_ superior, filled Hermione with the deep desire to boil Caractacus Burke in a cauldron.

But the lion's wrath had no place in a nest of reptiles. Cold and calm won this kind of race, not hot and bothered.

Hermione mastered herself, she could fix this. Even if it meant vaulting over her morals to endear herself to this foul man. _Fine,_ Hermione thought viciously. If Caractacus wanted her to _earn_ her supper, then Hermione would.

Hermione leaned across the table and boldly adjusted the old wizard's wonky glasses.

Caractacus visibly flinched backwards in his chair.

"What in Herpo's name—" Caractacus blustered.

Hermione withdrew, smiling sweetly. "—You're crooked."

"—WHAT?" He blurted loudly, flustered. His wrinkled face went red, throwing off his attitude of courtly irony.

Hermione tilted her head curiously at him, like a naive kitten. "Your glasses - they were crooked, sir." She said, softly. "Did you not notice? You did say you were feeling quite _old._ Perhaps, your vision has been further marred by age." Hermione snorted out loud, as if she had come across something painfully obvious. "Might I suggest a new prescription?" She said brightly, spreading her hands on his desk, like a doctor explaining something painfully obvious to an obnoxious patient.

"Now, allow _me_ to clarify, my vision for _you_." Hermione said, her voice now clipped and harsh.

_If you don't like how the table is laid, turn it over._

Hermione picked up a teacup, turning it idly. "Mr Burke, you strike me as a wizard who enjoys books. Have you ever come across the phrase: ‘To improve is to change, to perfect is to change often’?" Asked Hermione, her voice played like a foreboding song.

"No, I—"

"I thought not. You'd probably _only_ want to read wizarding literature." She said, lifting the teacup to her lips but obviously not drinking. "It's a muggle phrase. But when I was in your shop earlier, I could have _sworn_ I saw a whole HOST of _**illegal**_ objects...a taxidermy Kappa _and_ Runespoor eggs! Endangered creatures, aren't they? Isn't there a near-total ban on commercial trade on them? Anyway—" She shook her head as though dispelling a silly thought. "—I could have also _sworn_ I saw _**illegal**_ International, teleportation stamps? Forgive me sir, but doesn't the sale of all those items, violate International Laws of Apparition and Travel?"

Hermione huffed out loud, feigning doubt in her own assessments.

Caractacus opened his bearded mouth to respond, but Hermione interrupted him before he could ever get the chance to interrupt _her._

"So silly of me!" She said, in an excellent impression of Dolores Umbridge. "Did Herbert tell you I studied History of Magic? One of my favorite subjects! It came to nobody's surprise that I was sorted into the house of the Horned Serpent —favors the mind—Did you know?" She asked, airily - fishing. Her ears were pricked in the silence, listening carefully for any sound that did not come from Caractacus or the marine life above her.

"Isolt Sayre founded the school—a descendant of Slytherin himself—” She rattled on. But this line not directed at the warlock.

She noticed sound of some creaking wood at the mention of a certain wizard's secret ancestor.

 _Strange coincidences,_ Hermione noted shrewdly.

Hermione waved her hand flippantly, as though dismissing her own babble.

"Anyways, my point being that I'm an _avid_ student of history. Did you know that the scepter of Dagobert first, was _stolen_ in 1795 during the French Revolution? My, I _wonder_ what the _French_ would say if they found that their precious sceptre was _illegally_ — _"_

"—You've made your point!" Thundered Caractacus. He had jumped up from his chair as though it had burned him. Caractacus looked like was about to start puffing smoke out of the white tufts of hair in his ears.

Perhaps Herbert Burke had inherited his father's temper after all.

Caractacus looked away from Hermione and glared at a space behind her.

_Interesting._

"Have I made my point?" Asked Hermione pompously. "Forgive me, but isn't it rather _foolish_ to nakedly display a regalia of rare, _ **illegal**_ artifacts? When any old Ministry employee could stumble in? You might as well present your oh-so-secret underbelly down _here_ to the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"

Not that she was going to inform Caractacus that Borgin and Burkes was going to get away with selling dark artifacts for _decades,_ even after _two_ Wizarding Wars.

Hermione leaned forwards, sensing weakness.

"Mr Burke, you've built a fortune by maximizing your profits, but you've failed when it comes to minimizing risk. I spent less than five minutes in your shop, and I noticed you breached nearly every International Wizarding Law _—_ "

" _—So,_ you’re offering me risk assessment and magical management _?_ " Caractacus finished.

He settled back down in his chair in sudden understanding. Caractacus's calculating, blue eyes were boring into Hermione's, who met his gaze unflinchingly.

"I'm open-minded." He said.

"By all accounts, your shop assistant is incredibly gifted in persuading people to part with their treasures. As far as I can see, your role is to provide a confidential valuation service of these curios, then sell them at an inflated price. Might I propose another lucrative modus operandi?"

A greedy expression trilled across Caractacus's face.

"Go on." 

"I could help you acquire more, with minimal risk." Said Hermione, loftily. She drew her wand and drew shimmering shapes in the air; of a locket, a sword, a diadem and a cup—deliberately excluding the Slytherin, 'S' on the locket.

"Around twenty years ago you made the best bargain of your professional life. One winter, a pregnant witch stumbled into your shop with a certain...priceless locket." Hermione said, pausing for effect.

"The witch had inherited it by virtue from being one of the best Wizarding families—"

"—How did you—"

She ignored him, dispelling the glimmering illustrations in the air.

"Of course, I cannot steal back what has already been sold." She said slowly, as if speaking to a dull-witted child. She chose not to mention that the cup would need to be stolen from one of his customers, Hepzibah Smith.

After all, it was on a need to know basis.

"But I _can_ offer to locate other _equally_ precious items." She said. "So, does it matter how I know? Only that I can deliver?" Hermione waved her hand to punctuate her point. "Consider me an anthropomorphic niffler," she added slyly.

Caractacus Burke face had broken into a smile, which could only be described as a cheshire cat grin. In the blue light, he looked like a baby blue pig with teeth.

_Nothing succeeds like success._

"Perhaps there is some value in our blood relation after all." He said, rising in his seat. "I like this _vision_. Consider me persuaded."

Caractacus turned, striding to the bookcase behind him. He skimmed his fingers over a few books from the shelf behind him, plucking out two books.

"Bon Bon, come." Caractacus barked at thin air.

The small house elf appeared with a riotous pop. Hermione raised a curious eyebrow at Bon Bon. _So, house elves_ ** _can_** _apparate here? Lord Voldemort must truly have overlooked_ ** _you_** _, Bon Bon._

"You may escort Hermione back to her residence." Caractacus said, firmly. Caractacus turned his attention back to her and handed her the books.

"Study these before you start. Tom Riddle—my shop assistant will be there to show you around." Said Caractacus slowly. He cast a fleeting look behind Hermione's head. "You will start your training in three days hence, from twelve, midnight until a minimum of two o'clock."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest the ludicrous time.

But Caractacus hurtled on. "When I judge that you are capable of operating by yourself, you will be _fully_ employed—during normal working hours. You _will_ also remain silent on your comings and goings here.” He said, in a tone that conveyed he would not be challenged on these fronts.

“My salary?”

“Negotiable.” Caractacus said curtly. Making it clear they were not to discuss it now. "I trust you know how to return without the company of a house elf?"

Hermione scoffed, nodded and unstuck herself from the seat.

"It's been a _pleasure,_ Mr Burke." She said, in a voice that clearly conveyed the opposite. Hermione gave him a deliberately stilted curtsy, just as Bon Bon touched her leg.

With another riotous _crack!_ Hermione and Bon Bon vanished from the study.

Hands behind his back, expression pensive, Caractacus faced the ebony chair beside the door.

"Well, Tom?" He asked, thoughtfully. "Do you agree with my decision? What did you make of her?"

There was a faint rapping noise, as though someone had cracked an egg over someone's head.

A tall, handsome young wizard appeared in the chair. In the dim-blue glow of the vivarium, the light imbued him with the look of a languid deity - fascinating yet inaccessible. He sat for several moments without moving; his dark eyes were speculative, almost intrigued.

At last, Riddle nodded and said quietly, "Yes, a valuable future colleague, sir." 

Caractacus looked intently at Riddle. He settled back in his cushy seat and vanished the tea and fruit. Caractacus moved restlessly, flicking his wand over the blue velvet chair that Hermione had vacated.

The blue light struck Caractacus Burke's face sharply, accentuating the shadows under his eyes. "She did not touch the tea nor fruit, and my static charm collected none of her hairs." He said, his voice came steady and harsh. "Perhaps next time I should command Herbert's elf to ensure her hair remains loose."

An annoyed frown puckered his forehead, "exceedingly cautious and shrewd for a witch, I daresay she is quick as a viper on the uptake. Yes, best to keep her in the shop." Caractacus whispered to himself. "Tom, were you able to skim that mind?"

Riddle's expression was unreadable. The shop boy bowed his head subserviently.

"...I confess, sir. That I only caught a whisper." He spoke softly and low, as if he were telling secrets. "It seems, that the lady is an Occlumens"

Caractacus blinked at Riddle, thunderstruck. It was perhaps the first time that his brilliant shop boy had ever failed in an extraction that Caractacus had wanted.

"Not a single thought?!" He burst, alarmed. He placed a fat hand under his chin in deep contemplation.

There was another long pause, where neither man spoke. In the silence of the room the only noise was the grumble of Caractacus's stomach.

"Sir?" Said Riddle lightly. "If I might be so bold to suggest, Mr Burke. If you endeavored to form...a bond with the lady, the deception could divulge pertinent information?" 

Caractacus reddened, giving his skin a faint pink glow. "Social engineering, Tom?" He tittered. "I thought that better suited to your talents?" He said, suggestively. Withdrawing and sighing softly to himself.

"I’d rather not, she is a prissy witch." Said Caractacus, looking down at the silver tureen, contemplative. "She will remain in the shop until she can deliver on her promises and I can verify her identity." The warlock snorted, "my son may be a lecher and a moron. But he is remarkably accurate in his assessment of witches. He's right on this: she's bewitchingly pretty, but she lacks any savoir-faire. It could prove troubling, to have her behind the counter...I daresay she will be in for a shock in three days."

Riddle stood and walked leisurely around the domed room. He flicked his wand and a plate of his employer's favorite Turkish delight appeared on the table.

"That, can be taught, sir." He said quietly.

"You remembered!" grinned Caractacus. His eyes lit up and he stuffed a hand full of Turkish delight in his mouth. "You will teach her how to behave then, Tom?" He murmured with his mouth full.

"If you wish it, sir".

Caractacus nodded to himself eagerly, muttering to himself under his breath. "The Americans were most unhelpful in providing information on her. Then again, when Herbert's porked half their wives, I doubt they'd be accommodating to his father."

Riddle did not respond but continued to pace around the room seemingly in deep thought.

"Sir?" whispered Riddle. "Forgive me, there were certain things I did not quite understand—" 

Caractacus laughed, a ring of sugar around his mouth. "—stumping even you then? What is it, Tom?"

"I heard mention of a... locket, a sword—"

The warlock coughed loudly.

"—And that is all _you_ need to know!" Barked Caractacus, suddenly breathing in heavily. He looked rather like a panicked pig. His fingers were gooey from the sweets.

For the briefest of moments Tom Riddle looked temporarily stunned by the outburst. It was likely the first time his employer had ever directed his ire at his obedient shop boy. Riddle’s expression flashed with an eerie coldness, which was quickly smothered by a contrite expression.

He bowed.

"Forgive my probing sir, that was too bold of me. " He said, slipping back into his role as a subservient employee.

Caractacus waved his hand. "Never you mind it. In fact..." He spoke breathlessly, his piggy eyes twinkled moistly at Riddle behind his spectacles.

"Endear yourself to her, make her divulge her every secret to you. Use whatever means at your disposal, Tom." Said Caractacus, with his mouth full. "Give me verbal reports of my _supposed_ granddaughter's comings and goings on a fortnightly basis. But ensure that my lecher of a son does not know. He seems to have already formed an attachment to the swot, by mere association." He waved a sugared hand at Riddle. "I'll even improve your salary for it."

Riddle's eyes seemed to gleam in the blue light, in something like triumph.

"As you wish, Mr Burke."

The two men fell into silence again, interrupted only by the sounds of Caractacus stuffing himself.

"Oh, and Tom?" Asked Caractacus, swiveling in the chair. "Make sure you charm her."

Riddle's returning smile was positively predatory.

"I intend to".


	7. The Cuckoo

> "Something in us wants to be seduced, violated, transformed; our innocence, like our virginity, torn from us." - Joyce Carol Oates

It was nearing midnight.

Three days had passed since Hermione's less-than-savory meeting with Caractacus Burke.

 _The White Wyvern_ swelled with a growing crowd of cloaked wizards and dubious entities, thronging around the front of enormous skull of the Wyvern. They were all eagerly clamoring for a drink at the bar. A flushed wizard, holding a golden kneazle rapped the table rather rudely.

But looking wholly unruffled, Sanguini, the vampire bartender, peered concernedly down into Hermione's face.

"Even by Knockturn's standard's, Caractacus is a miser. Think carefully on this, Hermione, stay in your room tonight, find a better position. I'll even send you a free meal." Said Sanguini urgently.

The vampire was bald and emaciated, with shadows like bruises under his eyes.

When Hermione opened her mouth to respond, and a bandaged wizard sidled up to her, ogling her rather blatantly. Flushing angrily, Hermione was reminded of just why she never ventured out of her room in the evening: staying in Knockturn Alley was risky even at the best of times. It didn’t take her long to realize, she was the only witch living here, alone.

At this, Hermione stood up abruptly from the stool.

"That's very kind of you to say, Sanguini but I can't do that." She said briskly, shooting the bandaged wizard a warning look. "Well, I must be going now—Mr Burke's shop assistant will be waiting to show me what's what." She said nervously. Hermione slid a knut and a blood quill across the bone bar. "Do let me know if my intruder charm goes off while I'm out, will you? The wizard next door sometimes tries his luck when he's had one too many." 

"I will. But seriously"— Sanguini's manner changed; becoming sterner still—"Expect little, Caractacus will attempt to pay you less because you're a witch. Haggle if you must, you're worth every galleon"—Hermione blinked, touched by the sentiment—"But the old coot is only there in daylight. You'll be all the better for it too, it'll just be you and the shop boy tonight...He's about the nicest thing about _Boring and Bastards_. "

Hermione smiled weakly in response. _If only you knew, Sanguini,_ she thought, blanching internally.

Sanguini continued in a harsh whisper. "Even for a witch like you, it's dangerous for a lady alone at night. Without your house elf, you must go _straight_ there and come straight back afterwards."

Hermione choose not the comment and thanked the vampire.

Turning, Hermione swiftly made her way out of the crowded pub with great haste, stepping smartly over ancient steps and onto the dingy alleyway devoted to the dark arts. She paused, taking her bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, her long skirts whispering over the stones _._

The dark stoned shops of Knockturn Alley were ablaze with torches of shamrock flame; bathing the snow in fickle green shadows. In the cover of darkness, the higglety-pigglety buildings were imbued with eerie quality, rising, higher and higher like headless, fallen angels hankering from above.

Knockturn Alley had come _alive._

The twisting alley had been transformed, overflowing with a throng of cloaked shop-goers and other questionable entities; filling the air with unruly shouts and drunken slurs. Electric blue pixies hovered in the air like floating gumdrops, snickering and pilfering off of unsuspecting wizards. Decrepit market stalls had been erected, there was as a shabby-looking florist selling boutonnières of poisonous cobra lilies to a passing wizard, his stall displayed some venomous Tentaculas and devil's snare pods.

Muttering darkly, Hermione narrowly avoided colliding with a crowd of squabbling goblins outside _The Starry Prophesier,_ bearing gleaming celestial orbs and harassing a disgruntled-looking centaur. The goblins suddenly turned their domed heads to follow her movements as she passed—it was like they had never seen a witch before. Hermione sped past, now laying eyes on the golden embossed sign in the distance: _Borgin and Burkes._

She shivered in her suit, now that she was so near, so close to meeting _,_ to _working_ with Tom Riddle _;_ she wondered whether she wanted to do this after all...

Hermione pinched herself, snarling. Deliberately halting her anxious train of thought.

 _No matter what I might feel in there with Riddle. I_ ** _must_** _, hold it together_ _—_ she thought angrily— _the stakes are this high._ Hermione did not pretend to fathom why the horcrux had sent her to 1948. But Hermione recognized an opportunity when she saw one...where the Golden Trio would fail in fifty years, she would succeed now. Hermione could, she would, finish what they had started.

She would shed the serpent of his immortal hulls, one by one, like peeling an onion to its rotten core.

Hermione would discover where the fragments of his soul were and divest him of them _all._

From what she had garnered of Dumbledore's intelligence, Tom Riddle would remain as a humble shop boy until 1956. Unlike what her headmaster believed; Hermione suspected that the Slytherin heir had not fled because of the murder of Hepzibah Smith. No, he was much too arrogant for that, he had simply abandoned his post at _Borgin and Burkes_ only after his objectives had been met. Namely, finding the priceless vessels for his fractured soul. If Hermione performed her role here well, Tom Riddle would never discover the location of _any_ of the founder's artifacts. As his fellow shop assistant, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, she could point him in a different direction—the _wrong_ direction. 

Lord Voldemort would be mortal once more, all before so much as a whisper of the Boy-Who-Lived was even uttered.

But the final fall of the wand on his life could not come from her.

Hermione was many things, but a murderess? No, she could never sully herself with lifeblood—not even Lord Voldemort's. Besides, she was not conceited as to believe that she could outmatch him in offensive magic. Speaking only of magical prowess, the gulf between herself and a formally educated, _dark-arts dabbling_ , twenty-two-year-old Tom Riddle, in his _prime_...

_Insurmountable._

For now, at least.

But Hermione was still the cleverest witch of her age, of _every_ age. 

_Why go for the kill when you could profit from the nest?_ She thought, smirking. Yes, she could play cuckoo and grow fat on Riddle's expertise. For _now_ , she knew this: the locket had lodged a portion of Riddle's soul in her...and likely cobbled together the portion that Harry himself had had within him as well. That, in addition to the sheer _magnitude_ of dark magic that it would have required to reassemble her physical form...

Whether Hermione liked it or not, if she were to cut away the canker of Riddle's soul, she needed _forbidden_ knowledge. Only then, could she push him from the nest and expose him to the swift fall of the Wizemgot's justice.

Hermione strode officiously past the battered, bone sign of _Dystyl Phaelanges_ , which hung from a rusty bracket over the door with a moving model of a dancing skeleton on it, it was juggling the skulls of ghouls in its bony hands. She spotted an out pour of wizards, slopping flagons of firewhisky over their cloaks at _The Spiny Serpent_ , who paused to ogle at her with their mouths wide open as she passed. Rolling her eyes, she picked her way from the crowd and narrowly dodged a suspicious-looking, hooded peddler, holding a glass tray. He leered after her from the shadow of a doorway.

"Essence of the moon, precious pearl?" He jeered, suggestively.

Skirts billowing behind her, Hermione ignored the peddler and rushed away, feeling a horrible twinge in the pit of her stomach. There was a distinct crash and a harsh cry from behind her.

"MY POTIONS!" Hollered the same high voice. Hermione cast a nervous glance over her shoulder—the hooded peddler had dropped a vial onto the foot of an unsuspecting wizard. He was now harassing the wizard for some form of reimbursement, waving his wand around like it were a knife.

 _Crooks, the lot of them,_ Hermione scoffed reproachfully, picking up her pace. Finally, she came to a stop outside of a nasty window display of shrunken heads; it was the door opposite _Borgin and Burkes_.

She paused; head tilted at the shop window to look critically at her reflection. Her hair was up in a coiled bun, pinned by crystal, tansy hair ornament that Herbert Burke had gifted to her: it had been a congratulatory gift for her successful appointment at _Borgin and Burkes_. The tansy ornament shone, a fiery amber crown of flowers in her hair. To match, Bon Bon had picked out black silk gloves and a fetching black bar suit.

Hermione stood quite still on the pavement, relaxing all of her senses and taking in the abrupt proximity to the future Dark Lord. She released a shuddering breath, marginally and with control, lowered her Occlumency barriers. 

Tendrils of magic spread through her breast, like the long shadowy fingers of a denied lover. It trailed hotly beneath the skin of her collarbone in _ardent_ anticipation _,_ longing for consummation. The Horcrux clashed in a heady, intoxicating battle with her own rampant anxieties, in a dizzying, _manic_ kind of way.

 _It longs for its master,_ Hermione observed. She tilted her head, contemplative. _So, it_ ** _does_** _know when he's close by,_ she registered, tearing herself away from the connection. Hermione gritted her teeth and her Occlumency walls came crashing down, be-stilling it's magic like a wash of a wave over a candle.

 _Soon, you can be reunited,_ she directed insidiously at the locket, _just not in a way you'd prefer_.

After a moment, Hermione became aware that her forehead was pressed against _Noggin and Bonce's_ cool glass window; she drew away with a shuddering breath. Hermione stared back at the charmed color of her irises: a day before she had succeeded in turning it to Merlot _—_ the closest she had gotten to her own warm brown since she been reborn in 1948 _—_ it was reassuring even in the falseness of the color. Standing quite still, Hermione allowed her mind to recover in the aftermath of the onslaught of the locket. Her head turned to the side; the same hooded peddler had made his way down to this side of the alley.

He watched her rather brazenly from a door down _—_ in front of the window with the large cage of gigantic black spider, inching towards her. Hermione scowled at the figure and whipped her head away.

Besides, she currently had far more pressing concerns than some dodgy peddler.

Sniffing nervously, she examined her burnished reflection, appraising whether she was in a fit state to enter _Borgin and Burkes,_ to greet the young Dark Lord.

But then Hermione heard the shop bell peal, clanging clearly and loudly from behind her.

Instinctively, she spun on her heel to the entrance to face the silhouette.

A young woman with a strong jaw emerged. Petite with thick, shining dark hair held in pristine victory rolls, she possessed an indefinable air of being well-cared for. She donned a white and splendid, puffskein fur coat and was dangling metal chain attached to an enamelled, (rather familiar-looking) enchanted music box. A trio of drunken wizards whistled at her as they passed the threshold.

"Did they just _whistle_ at _me_? Did you?" She barked at them loudly, looking ready to pounce. Horrified, they gaped back at her ferocity.

"How dare you _—_ close your eyes! I'm a married witch!" She huffed aloud as they scurried away positively mortified. The witch turned back into the doorway, facing someone.

"Innovative! If he's snoring away like a dragon _—_ I say! I only like the fun part, not the growing fat and round part." The witch declared vulgarly, waving a hand in a dismissive motion. She emitted a breathy snort that did not become her aristocratic visage.

To Hermione's chagrin, the witch was standing, lodged in the doorway like an enormous furry white door stopper, blocking her view of the shadowy entrance. The witch's sharp face flushed with a grim satisfaction. "Capital _—capital—_ ingenious as ever, Riddle _—_ "

Hermione felt her stomach turn over.

" _—_ I say, Kreacher is far more excited about the prospect of squalling babes than _I._ " She continued to squeal with a dark mirth. Shuffling from the wooden frame, the witch gave a look behind her of the utmost incredulity. "I must say _,_ you were _Headboy—_ you're _not_ a house elf! The Blacks could easily position you in the Ministry with a rank _worthy_ of your caliber _."_

With the shock of recognition, Hermione felt as though she had been doused with a large pail of ice.

_'Stains of dishonor, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth!' Howled Walburga Black's portrait._

Then, the tall silhouette of the Slytherin heir stepped into the threshold.

Concentrating on his outline, Hermione's body pulsed, she felt a foreign prickling sensation. It was irritation, that was not quite her own. For one teetering second, Hermione thought Riddle would react tempestuously at the sheer gall of the Black heiress. But his shadowy figure dipped into an agile bow, sweeping hot air from the shop and caressing Hermione's cold face like a soft greeting.

"I thank you for your kind concern." Riddle responded deferentially. "But you need not trouble yourself, Madam Black".

Tom Riddle's voice was deep and had a mesmerizing smoothness to it, like a fine liquor; prepossessing none of the hissing, high and cold quality to it that she had come to associate with the locket.

Hermione felt her mouth go completely dry.

Walburga's bottom lip protruded, pouting. She huffed aloud; her face was exquisite with her disappointment. But it appeared that Walburga realized, not for the first time, that she could not compel the future Dark Lord of otherwise.

He was standing so far back, that Hermione could not make out his face, but she practically hear the mechanical upturn of his lips.

Riddle continued eloquently. "However, at present, I am to remain a humble assistant to Mr Burke. He has ordered me to attend to a... certain pressing, upcoming engagement. It is of the utmost importance." He intoned politely.

There was a deliberate pause and she felt the sudden weight of Riddle's gaze shift beyond Walburga's head and look directly at _her_.

Hermione cried out.

The scene seemed to play out in slow motion as she was brutally thrown right off of her feet, hands flying to the cobblestones. Doubling over, there was an enormously, loud crash. It was sound of glass colliding with brute force onto the pavement. Her tansy ornament, and vials shattered in emphatically against the stone pavement, spilling their luminous liquid contents. Midnight bled with amber, swirling ominously with a fluid of a pearl sheen, suffusing the cracks of the cobblestones and permeating the air with a potent, and indeterminate scent.

Liquid soaked through the hem of Hermione's skirts, jolting her from her stupor.

But Hermione's head twisted so fast, that she felt it give a crick. The hooded peddler's face swam before hers, close enough to swipe at. The peddler was an incredibly warty wizard. Whose meaty, heavy skin hung in layered folds from his glaring yellow eyes. His thin black lips were twisted into a sharp, sinister smile displaying mossy teeth. Hermione's lips parted in horror.

"Look where you're going you blundering witch!" He howled; his voice came like the triumphant call of a vulture.

A million eyes seemed to snap in their direction, towards the ear-splitting noise.

"All of my precious wares " He yelped mournfully, wringing his hands at the slowly gathering crowd, like a ringmaster in a circus. A few of the wizards above them shifted uncomfortably on their foots, muttering in agreement.

Hermione’s eyes widened. He had done this deliberately yet—

The peddler was trying to pressure her into paying for it all. Hermione opened and closed her mouth with a silent rage.

He pointed a gnarled finger at her melodramatically, "this is a clear example of why witches should be by the cauldron _—"_

She felt thick patches of indignant blood rush to her cheeks.

 _Because I'm a_ **_witch_ ** _without a wizard in Knockturn Alley._

The peddler had thought her an easy target, because she was _girl_.

She was in the 1940s, sexism wasn't merely rife, it was the accepted standard.

There was a great lurch of unbridled rage in her bloodstream. Hermione felt her hair fly fall loose around her shoulders and crackle with electricity. He had thought that she was some naive little witch in Knockturn Alley that he could easily take advantage of, by totting up some cock-and-bull story of _her_ knocking into him. That she would meekly submit and pay whatever he asked of her _—_

 _The crook can shove his vials up his_ _—_

Anger had enveloped her like a second skin, throbbing in her breast, clogging her throat with venom. 

He was looking at her with a kind of horrible delight. "You best pay _—"_

The wizard's breath was foul as spoiled meat. Hermione careened precariously, trembling with such rage she felt that if she moved, she would surely hex his eyes from his skull.

"No, I will not." She growled; her voice came like the slice of a knife. Hermione itched to curse the slimy wizard into oblivion, but there was a curious crowd waiting patiently for her to pay her dues; hovering nosily in the periphery. She fingered her wand, willing the wizard to attack, to give her an excuse to respond in public in kind. "Did you think I didn't notice? Is it because I'm a woman? _I saw you earlier_. You did that on purpose! You can't _lie—"_

"—I SAID YOU BEST PAY FOR THAT!" The peddler bellowed, drowning out Hermione's voice. The wizard snarled, the layers of his skin beneath his chin wobbled like custard.

But Hermione's eyes flashed scarlet and the world seemed to bleed _red_. 

The wizard leapt backwards, shrieking in shock. The warts of his face had started to move and form themselves in series of gleaming, disfigured letters, assembling the burning word, 'C-R-O-O-K' across his forehead. Steeped with stinging puss, they burst suddenly, forming great craters on his porous skin.

The peddler pulled the hood of his robe further down to hide his forehead, eyes awash with indignation and _fear—_

 _Did I do that?_ Hermione thought, affixed, frozen in her mortification. 

The spread of horcrux's pleasurable warmth was her only reply, it vibrated gently in her, like a tentative kiss of affirmation.

The peddler fumbled for his wand then froze.

Hermione inhaled sharply as everything dawned on her. Appalled, her eyes began darting wildly, searching desperately for Riddle. Did he witness that performance from the door frame? How could she have allowed herself to so rash? So illogical at a pivotal time? This was not at all how he was meant to first catch sight of her, sprawled in a enraged fit of accidental magic on the pavements, Hermione did not plan for _—_

"Sir." Interrupted a low voice, close to her ear, startling Hermione. Although his voice was quiet, it rose clearly above the noise in the winding alleyway. Hermione had not _heard_ or _felt_ his soundless approach. Hermione dropped her gaze to the side; a yew wand was lowered over her shoulder. Hermione stiffened at the sight.

For once, she could not think properly.

"Peddling is not permitted outside of the premises of _Borgin and Burkes_." Riddle said calmly.

The indignant expression on the peddler's face died at once. He immediately fell silent, eyes downcast, Hermione could practically smell the apprehension rippling from him.

 _The peddler knows him,_ Hermione registered. _He fears him._ Even in such a state, her mind lurched. No one Hermione had met seemed to know of Burke's shop boy's true nature, but why, would this seemingly random peddler know and _fear_ him?

Hermione was rudely awakened from her musings.

Riddle's hand rested on her back, gently steadying her. Her breaths came out fast and quick. He had knelt behind Hermione, so closely that she could feel the buttons of a wizard's dress robes brush fleetingly against her hair. She caught the heady draft of cedar wood cologne, ink and parchment. 

Her heart leapt into her throat. 

She saw long, elegant fingers hold a yew wand with a relaxed grace. He pointed it directly at the puddle of shattered glass and fluid, Riddle gave his wand an idle flick and the glass flew back together as though it had never spilled. Filled again with teaming liquid, resplendent and gleaming. But Hermione's tansy hair ornament was nowhere to be found.

"Oh, I just—th-thank you. But she still—" The peddler began in a tremulous voice. Looking from Hermione to Riddle, then back at the murmuring wizards watching nosily. The peddler seemed to think better of it and turned to flee through a gap in the crowd.

"Well, that was a scary bit of wandless magic, from a witch no less." Whispered a wizard still holding a flask of ale.

"But shop boy is such a gentleman." Answered another wizard, holding a mandrake with a sock stuffed in its mouth.

The crowd, sensing the show was over, dispersed, whispering among themselves. Hermione glared indignantly at their retreating backs, then let out a relieved sigh.

Riddle's wand disappeared from sight.

His other hand pressed more firmly against her back, steering her. He seemed to inch even closer than what was decent, and Hermione felt her the back of her head collide with a broad, warm chest. Most alarmingly, Riddle felt...familiar to her; like a voice from an inaccessible past.

Hermione shuddered with fear. 

"He is gone now." He said to her, mistaking her reaction. _You're safe now,_ Riddle seemed to be trying to communicate.

_No, you’re much worse. It’s like comparing a rat, to the viper in the grass._

She swallowed; she had never felt more mortified in her life. Hermione felt almost certain that he could hear her heartbeat, like a hammer against cloth.

Because the tiny flicker of the horcrux from minutes before had torn through her like a dancing wildfire in her veins. It was past rejoicing; it was beyond delight...

It was _euphoria._

She was barrelled with a wave after successive wave of longing. She wanted nothing more than to melt into this _foul_ wizard's arms; like butter onto toast.

An unforgivable loss of control.

Hermione tore her mind and body away from Riddle with such a violence, that the feeling was nothing short of ripping a fresh bandage from a wound. Breathing heavily, she kept her gaze lowered to the cobblestones and felt almost fevered. She dared not look at him without her Occlumency barrier solidly in place, gritting her teeth Hermione banished the locket's magic.

Then, Riddle, of course, had to do the other gallant— _chivalrous_ —thing and moved to stand in front of her, offering his hand to help her up. Even from the periphery of her eyes, she could tell he was almost unfairly tall.

"Are you feeling well, Miss?.."

At the inquiry, Hermione shot up from the ground like a rocket.

"I'm quite well. Thank you very much!" Spluttered Hermione tersely, she was half tempted to pull her hand back and violently slap away the dark wizard's hand. Straightening with as much dignity as she could muster, Hermione pursed her lips and felt her face flush with embarrassment. She cleared her throat pointedly, smoothing her skirts.

Hermione could practically feel the weight of Riddle's gaze trailing up and down her profile, the muscles in her throat tensed in response to his scrutiny. But Hermione's mind ticked analytically, leap frogging in the span of less than a second. With the locket's magic, she knew he was perfectly aware of her supposed identity. Riddle had been there in Caractacus Burke's study that day, disillusioned and silent, but why? Furthermore, Hermione doubted that Riddle would rush out of the shop for any old, accosted witch...but Hermione did not linger on these thoughts.

_The dice has fallen, how must I proceed?_

"My name—you can call me Hermione." She said, breaking the silence first. "Thank you." Hermione repeated, more firmly this time. She drew herself to her full height, regaining her composure. Very deliberately, as if committing herself to something, looked up at him directly in the eye.

Tom Riddle was _devastatingly_ handsome.

Tall and dressed plainly in a black suit; Riddle had high, chiselled cheekbones that imbued him with the aspect of a beautiful mask. His hair was a little long, falling in immaculate black waves that served to accentuate the Slytherin's striking features. His full lips were curled slightly upwards, in a knowing half smile. But it was his eyes that sucked Hermione into a sensuous vertigo.

They looked at her now, impossibly black. When Hermione looked back, she felt drawn out of herself, sucked into an oblivion that she could not comprehend.

Riddle's smile broadened in recognition, displaying dazzlingly perfect teeth.

The tension in the night air seemed to crack.

Hermione's willed her face into an unimpressed mask; she did not return his smile.

"Hermione," He whispered, he said it in a way that made it sound positively edible. "Our long-awaited meeting as come at last." Riddle continued smoothly. He inclined his head, dipping into a low bow; effortlessly debonair.

"Our long-awaited meeting?" Hermione repeated, raising her eyebrows. Despite how miraculously level her voice was now, she could still feel her blood singing. "And _you_ are?"

"A fellow humble assistant to Caractacus Burke. Mr Burke has instructed me to guide you, my lady." He straightened and scanned her, his expression now polite and earnest. The Dark Lord stepped towards her, extending a hand. "Riddle." The Slytherin heir intoned smoothly. "Tom Riddle." Hermione inclined her head in return mirroring his expression but noting the preference for his last name. For a wizard who supposedly hated his name, it rolled as easily as sin off of his tongue.

Then quite inexplicably, Riddle had Hermione's hand in his. In a moment as ephemeral as it was chaste, he brushed his lips politely over her gloved knuckles.

Alarmed, she wrenched her hand from his, dropping it at her side as though she never wanted to use it again. Hermione retreated a step backwards, clearing her throat. There was a rush of energy in her hands from where he had kissed her. 

Riddle's gaze considered her movements but made no comment.

_Control your emotions, discipline your mind._

Snapping her eyes away from his, she picked a speck of dirt from her skirt; raising it up to examine it above her eyes. Hermione furtively scanned Walburga, she was watching them inquisitively from the threshold of _Borgin and Burkes_. 

_Constant vigilance,_ she thought, Hermione would not be remiss of her surroundings a second time, she could use this: stall the inevitable, while she quietly regained complete control over her mind. Quite intentionally, Hermione smiled invitingly at Walburga Black, who perked up like an eager rabbit waiting to pounce.

Hermione licked her lips.

"Tom"―she repeated, stepping around him as though he were but a stone in her way―" _Marvolo_ Riddle. Yes―Well, Mr Riddle, you're to show me around today, aren't you?" She asked idly. She noticed his torso tense imperceptibly. His head followed her movements as she circled around him. "I've heard _so_ much about you. I feel as though I know you as much as I know myself by now." Hermione said smiling serenely. "I wonder, " she paused. Whispering lowly, as though to the night sky. "Will you live up to your daunting reputation?"

Hermione's eyes snapped back to Riddle's. His dark eyes burned into Hermione's, who met his gaze unflinchingly. She need not be a skilled Legilimens to discern the intemperate curiosity sparked there and she would be bigger fool to not be able to discern the darker, more dangerous flame that smouldered beneath the surface.

A question was kindling within those murky depths.

Where had this strange witch heard his middle name? 

_Follow the little breadcrumbs._

Hermione pulled out her wand. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Riddle following the motion. After all, it looked so remarkably similar to his own, yew wand.

Absentmindedly, she moved her wand over her suit like a vacuum cleaner. Twirling her wand in her hand, she stowed it nimbly under her sleeve. Hermione turned her head to examine another _well-timed_ arrival, now flouncing past the anonymous entities in the slowly emptying alleyway.

 _Time is moving forward now, not back and it's going to be on_ **_my side_ ** _, Mr Riddle._

"Galloping Gargoyles!" Yelled Walburga. At the sound, she couldn't help but wince imperceptibly. Hermione was acutely reminded of her days sneaking past Mrs Black's shrieking portrait in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Walburga stopped between the two of them, she stared avidly at Hermione and then at Riddle; looking half-fascinated, half-stunned. Her hair seemed to have gained new volume―inflating above her like it were a balloon fit to burst from her curiosity. 

Hermione turned throw a furtive look at Riddle, his jaw seemed to tick ever so slightly at Walburga's arrival. At the sight, Hermione turned to smile graciously at Walburga, who was looking expectantly at the future Dark Lord, seemingly excitedly waiting for some form of introduction.

"Madam Black." Riddle finally said, his voice remarkably pleasant. But his eyes had not left Hermione for a single moment, rather they seemed to sink further into her skin; digging. "This lovely lady is a new assistant for Mr Burke."

Although his face remained a courtly mask, Hermione could practically feel the waves of his displeasure at Walburga's interruption.

_Excellent, let's see the devil behind the mask._

The Black heiress' eyes widened, her steel grey eyes roving over her with unabashed fascination and thrusted out a gloved hand. "Hermione," she added, taking Walburga's hand and curtsying primly. "Charmed, Madam Black. Mr Riddle is to train me as Mr Burke's new shop assistant."

Mrs Black blinked at her as though she couldn't believe her eyes. "That old git is employing a _witch?_ He barely lets _ **me**_ into the shop, the only reason I'm here is because Riddle is so discreet." She said, fuming. Mrs Black released Hermione’s hand so vigorously, that she thought the witch might have pulled it from its socket. "Great Auntie Belvina _told_ me nothing of _this._ " She shot Hermione an appraising look. “Well, I don't blame that git for wanting _you_ on his shelf. Maybe he has a taste _beyond_ the inanimate now? Slip of a girl aren’t you? How old are you? Nineteen?"

Hermione felt herself blanch at the mention of Herbert Burke's wife, how accurately Walburga brushed to her supposed lineage.

"I may be young, Madam Black, but I assure you, I intend to do some good in the position." She said smartly, grinning and gazing back at the smoothly arrogant face.

"Yes, well―" Walburga looked up and down Hermione's sumptuous suit, fitted by Bon Bon―"that was certainly some magical aptitude I saw there. You must be a Pureblood."

Hermione couldn't help but stiffen at the question, biting the inside of her cheek. Riddle watched the movement with great interest.

Walburga, hurtled on, not waiting for her reply. The Black heiress was staring at Riddle with an expression of sudden sinister delight. She prodded Riddle in the bicep with a furry elbow. "Quite valiant of you to rush in there. Was it for your more pressing, upcoming engagement?" She said, snickering.

Hermione blinked, missing her meaning. Instead, taking advantage of Walburga's momentary inattention to steal another quick look at Riddle, his expression was speculative as Walburga patted his arm with a white hand. "Of the utmost importance, was it?"

Missing Walburga's implication entirely, Hermione's jaw dropped at the witch's proximity, and Riddle...permitting it. Despite her quibbles with the witch's Pureblood ideals, Hermione instinctively wanted nothing more than to yank her backwards to a safer distance.

_Step away, you imbecile―_

"Yes. Mr Burke has deemed her an _invaluable_ future employee." He said quietly. Riddle's eyes glinted at her, pleased and almost...rapacious. "Marvellous, isn't she?"

Riddle looked at Hermione in a manner that was more predatory than anything she had seen. He smiled and his teeth glinted like a shock of white in the night.

Something swept warmly against her cheek. Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck stand. She startled backwards; her head turned to the side. But there was no one there, not even the wind. The wizards in the alley way were slowly trickling home, some of the shops began to close some time after midnight. Her gaze swept back to Riddle.

He was looking back at her, hands in his pockets, looking vaguely entertained by the whole affair. Riddle's eyes seemed to shine from a light from within themselves.

Had he done that?

Then it hit her: _The peddler―Her unbridled rage―the outburst of wandless magic._

Perhaps he did do it. But above all the things, Riddle was _impressed._

Walburga gesticulated wildly at Hermione. "But this is a sign, Riddle! I say, Orion and young Abraxas have always said you were destined for the Ministry. After you train this minx" —She grinned at Riddle, elated "—she can replace you!"

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, she hoisted an unconvincing look of innocent surprise at the remark.

Shards of coldness seeped into Riddle's gaze. But when Hermione blinked, the moment had melted away as though it never existed. He smiled beatifically down at Walburga, removing her hand from his bicep and clasping it in his knuckles with such gentility; he looked very image of a prince from a fairy tale.

"I forgot to ask, how _is_ Abraxas and your dear, Orion?" He asked, veering the question away from himself. "Is your husband engaged elsewhere tonight?"

Walburga stared at Riddle with wide and nervous eyes, she gave a small choking noise at the mention of her husband and trembled.

Hermione felt the corner of her mouth twitch, at the effortlessness of it all.

"He—They are quite well. Orion is out with the boys right now, he had hoped you would have joined them after work, but well, you're nearly always busy, now aren't you?" Walburga blustered. Hermione's eyes narrowed at the information. So, Riddle was invited to these little gatherings, but rarely appeared. Had he not started his little cult of the Knights of Walpurgis at Hogwarts? Started calling himself Lord Voldemort, before he had even graduated?

Walburga shook back her puffskein lined sleeves, glancing down at a fine wristwatch with ten onyx dials.

Hermione bowed her head, sensing an end to Walburga's presence and protection. Soon, Hermione would have to be brave and keep her wits about her, when she is alone with Tom Riddle.

"Morgana's left bosom!" Walburga shrieked suddenly, stumbling backwards. Whatever the dials had shown her, they could not have been good. "Yes—well, quite late for me—don't want Orion thinking I'm up to _that kind_ of no good. Well, I'll leave the two of you to it." She said, curtsying hurriedly to the two of them. "Thank you, Tom, — _do_ pop by Grimmauld for a decent meal, won't you?" She said crossly, tapping her foot in a motion that outlandishly resembled Mrs Weasley. She nodded at Hermione, offhandedly in a vague goodbye. 

The Black turned precariously on the spot.

"Kreacher, if you please!" Walburga called in the night air, sounding suddenly oddly fond.

The elf appeared with a soft pop!

The elf was almost dramatically unrecognizable. Dressed in a snowy white toga, his face was less wrinkled and the tufts of hair at his ears a clean and fluffy white. He beamed at his mistress, bowing so low and with such reverence that his nose brushed the cobblestones. Then he straightened ever so slightly and gave Riddle and Hermione a funny little spasm that she assumed was a bow.

_Well, some things never change._

"Mistress Black" Kreacher cooed adoringly, offering her a small hand for her to take. The two disappeared from the alley with another noise like a gun shot.

An ominous silence fell.

Riddle had walked ahead already; he stopped and waved his wand, the door to _Borgin and Burkes_ creaked open revealing the dim yellow glow from the shop. Hermione realized; he had likely shut it when he had dashed out onto the pavement after her scuffle in the snow. Riddle turned to look at her, his expression unreadable as he held open the door for her.

"Shall we begin?" He said, lowly.

Hermione's heart drummed madly inside her, but her brain was oddly cool and clear.

In the sudden silence, her footsteps echoed on the cobblestones as she walked across the pavements to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but updates might come a little slower soon, I've just started university! If any of you have any questions, you can find me at https://bitethestars.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if anyone finds any glaring grammatical errors, English is not my first language. The prologue is the sole chapter that will be told from Harry's perspective. The rest, most part, will be from Hermione's POV.


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